diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:14:23 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:14:23 -0700 |
| commit | 5c6aefc3347e9c4e27da2774d773292f123ef263 (patch) | |
| tree | dba8d8bd99427b59b878b690df28a3ff33d58764 /old/122-h | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old/122-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/122-h/122-h.htm | 23842 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/122-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 260383 bytes |
2 files changed, 23842 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/122-h/122-h.htm b/old/122-h/122-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19b8d34 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/122-h/122-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,23842 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Return of the Native, by Thomas Hardy</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Return of the Native, by Thomas Hardy</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Return of the Native</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Thomas Hardy</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April, 1994 [eBook #122]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 21, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John Hamm and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The Return of the Native</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Thomas Hardy</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#pref01">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book01">BOOK FIRST—THE THREE WOMEN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. The Custom of the Country</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. The Halt on the Turnpike Road</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. Perplexity among Honest People</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. The Figure against the Sky</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. Queen of Night</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">X. A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book02">BOOK SECOND—THE ARRIVAL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">I. Tidings of the Comer</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">II. The People at Blooms-End Make Ready</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">III. How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">IV. Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">V. Through the Moonlight</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">VI. The Two Stand Face to Face</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">VII. A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">VIII. Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book03">BOOK THIRD—THE FASCINATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">I. “My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">II. The New Course Causes Disappointment</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">III. The First Act in a Timeworn Drama</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">IV. An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">V. Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">VI. Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">VII. The Morning and the Evening of a Day</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">VIII. A New Force Disturbs the Current</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book04">BOOK FOURTH—THE CLOSED DOOR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">I. The Rencounter by the Pool</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">II. He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">III. She Goes Out to Battle against Depression</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">IV. Rough Coercion Is Employed</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">V. The Journey across the Heath</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">VI. A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">VII. The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">VIII. Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book05">BOOK FIFTH—THE DISCOVERY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">I. “Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">II. A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">III. Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">IV. The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">V. An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">VI. Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">VII. The Night of the Sixth of November</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap43">VIII. Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap44">IX. Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#book06">BOOK SIXTH—AFTERCOURSES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap45">I. The Inevitable Movement Onward</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap46">II. Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap47">III. The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap48">IV. Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His Vocation</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="letter"> + “To sorrow<br /> + I bade good morrow,<br /> +And thought to leave her far away behind;<br /> + But cheerly, cheerly,<br /> + She loves me dearly;<br /> +She is so constant to me, and so kind.<br /> + I would deceive her,<br /> + And so leave her,<br /> +But ah! she is so constant and so kind.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="pref01"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +The date at which the following events are assumed to have occurred may be set +down as between 1840 and 1850, when the old watering place herein called +“Budmouth” still retained sufficient afterglow from its Georgian +gaiety and prestige to lend it an absorbing attractiveness to the romantic and +imaginative soul of a lonely dweller inland. +</p> + +<p> +Under the general name of “Egdon Heath,” which has been given to +the sombre scene of the story, are united or typified heaths of various real +names, to the number of at least a dozen; these being virtually one in +character and aspect, though their original unity, or partial unity, is now +somewhat disguised by intrusive strips and slices brought under the plough with +varying degrees of success, or planted to woodland. +</p> + +<p> +It is pleasant to dream that some spot in the extensive tract whose +southwestern quarter is here described, may be the heath of that traditionary +King of Wessex—Lear. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +T.H. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>July</i>, 1895. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book01"></a>BOOK FIRST—THE THREE WOMEN</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I.<br /> +A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression</h2> + +<p> +A Saturday afternoon in November was approaching the time of twilight, and the +vast tract of unenclosed wild known as Egdon Heath embrowned itself moment by +moment. Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud shutting out the sky was +as a tent which had the whole heath for its floor. +</p> + +<p> +The heaven being spread with this pallid screen and the earth with the darkest +vegetation, their meeting-line at the horizon was clearly marked. In such +contrast the heath wore the appearance of an instalment of night which had +taken up its place before its astronomical hour was come: darkness had to a +great extent arrived hereon, while day stood distinct in the sky. Looking +upwards, a furze-cutter would have been inclined to continue work; looking +down, he would have decided to finish his faggot and go home. The distant rims +of the world and of the firmament seemed to be a division in time no less than +a division in matter. The face of the heath by its mere complexion added half +an hour to evening; it could in like manner retard the dawn, sadden noon, +anticipate the frowning of storms scarcely generated, and intensify the opacity +of a moonless midnight to a cause of shaking and dread. +</p> + +<p> +In fact, precisely at this transitional point of its nightly roll into darkness +the great and particular glory of the Egdon waste began, and nobody could be +said to understand the heath who had not been there at such a time. It could +best be felt when it could not clearly be seen, its complete effect and +explanation lying in this and the succeeding hours before the next dawn; then, +and only then, did it tell its true tale. The spot was, indeed, a near relation +of night, and when night showed itself an apparent tendency to gravitate +together could be perceived in its shades and the scene. The sombre stretch of +rounds and hollows seemed to rise and meet the evening gloom in pure sympathy, +the heath exhaling darkness as rapidly as the heavens precipitated it. And so +the obscurity in the air and the obscurity in the land closed together in a +black fraternization towards which each advanced halfway. +</p> + +<p> +The place became full of a watchful intentness now; for when other things sank +brooding to sleep the heath appeared slowly to awake and listen. Every night +its Titanic form seemed to await something; but it had waited thus, unmoved, +during so many centuries, through the crises of so many things, that it could +only be imagined to await one last crisis—the final overthrow. +</p> + +<p> +It was a spot which returned upon the memory of those who loved it with an +aspect of peculiar and kindly congruity. Smiling champaigns of flowers and +fruit hardly do this, for they are permanently harmonious only with an +existence of better reputation as to its issues than the present. Twilight +combined with the scenery of Egdon Heath to evolve a thing majestic without +severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic in its admonitions, grand in +its simplicity. The qualifications which frequently invest the façade of a +prison with far more dignity than is found in the façade of a palace double its +size lent to this heath a sublimity in which spots renowned for beauty of the +accepted kind are utterly wanting. Fair prospects wed happily with fair times; +but alas, if times be not fair! Men have oftener suffered from, the mockery of +a place too smiling for their reason than from the oppression of surroundings +oversadly tinged. Haggard Egdon appealed to a subtler and scarcer instinct, to +a more recently learnt emotion, than that which responds to the sort of beauty +called charming and fair. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty is not +approaching its last quarter. The new Vale of Tempe may be a gaunt waste in +Thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and closer harmony with +external things wearing a sombreness distasteful to our race when it was young. +The time seems near, if it has not actually arrived, when the chastened +sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain will be all of nature that is +absolutely in keeping with the moods of the more thinking among mankind. And +ultimately, to the commonest tourist, spots like Iceland may become what the +vineyards and myrtle gardens of South Europe are to him now; and Heidelberg and +Baden be passed unheeded as he hastens from the Alps to the sand dunes of +Scheveningen. +</p> + +<p> +The most thoroughgoing ascetic could feel that he had a natural right to wander +on Egdon—he was keeping within the line of legitimate indulgence when he +laid himself open to influences such as these. Colours and beauties so far +subdued were, at least, the birthright of all. Only in summer days of highest +feather did its mood touch the level of gaiety. Intensity was more usually +reached by way of the solemn than by way of the brilliant, and such a sort of +intensity was often arrived at during winter darkness, tempests, and mists. +Then Egdon was aroused to reciprocity; for the storm was its lover, and the +wind its friend. Then it became the home of strange phantoms; and it was found +to be the hitherto unrecognized original of those wild regions of obscurity +which are vaguely felt to be compassing us about in midnight dreams of flight +and disaster, and are never thought of after the dream till revived by scenes +like this. +</p> + +<p> +It was at present a place perfectly accordant with man’s +nature—neither ghastly, hateful, nor ugly; neither commonplace, +unmeaning, nor tame; but, like man, slighted and enduring; and withal +singularly colossal and mysterious in its swarthy monotony. As with some +persons who have long lived apart, solitude seemed to look out of its +countenance. It had a lonely face, suggesting tragical possibilities. +</p> + +<p> +This obscure, obsolete, superseded country figures in Domesday. Its condition +is recorded therein as that of heathy, furzy, briary +wilderness—“Bruaria.” Then follows the length and breadth in +leagues; and, though some uncertainty exists as to the exact extent of this +ancient lineal measure, it appears from the figures that the area of Egdon down +to the present day has but little diminished. “Turbaria +Bruaria”—the right of cutting heath-turf—occurs in charters +relating to the district. “Overgrown with heth and mosse,” says +Leland of the same dark sweep of country. +</p> + +<p> +Here at least were intelligible facts regarding landscape—far-reaching +proofs productive of genuine satisfaction. The untameable, Ishmaelitish thing +that Egdon now was it always had been. Civilization was its enemy; and ever +since the beginning of vegetation its soil had worn the same antique brown +dress, the natural and invariable garment of the particular formation. In its +venerable one coat lay a certain vein of satire on human vanity in clothes. A +person on a heath in raiment of modern cut and colours has more or less an +anomalous look. We seem to want the oldest and simplest human clothing where +the clothing of the earth is so primitive. +</p> + +<p> +To recline on a stump of thorn in the central valley of Egdon, between +afternoon and night, as now, where the eye could reach nothing of the world +outside the summits and shoulders of heathland which filled the whole +circumference of its glance, and to know that everything around and underneath +had been from prehistoric times as unaltered as the stars overhead, gave +ballast to the mind adrift on change, and harassed by the irrepressible New. +The great inviolate place had an ancient permanence which the sea cannot claim. +Who can say of a particular sea that it is old? Distilled by the sun, kneaded +by the moon, it is renewed in a year, in a day, or in an hour. The sea changed, +the fields changed, the rivers, the villages, and the people changed, yet Egdon +remained. Those surfaces were neither so steep as to be destructible by +weather, nor so flat as to be the victims of floods and deposits. With the +exception of an aged highway, and a still more aged barrow presently to be +referred to—themselves almost crystallized to natural products by long +continuance—even the trifling irregularities were not caused by pickaxe, +plough, or spade, but remained as the very finger-touches of the last +geological change. +</p> + +<p> +The above-mentioned highway traversed the lower levels of the heath, from one +horizon to another. In many portions of its course it overlaid an old vicinal +way, which branched from the great Western road of the Romans, the Via +Iceniana, or Ikenild Street, hard by. On the evening under consideration it +would have been noticed that, though the gloom had increased sufficiently to +confuse the minor features of the heath, the white surface of the road remained +almost as clear as ever. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II.<br /> +Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble</h2> + +<p> +Along the road walked an old man. He was white-headed as a mountain, bowed in +the shoulders, and faded in general aspect. He wore a glazed hat, an ancient +boat-cloak, and shoes; his brass buttons bearing an anchor upon their face. In +his hand was a silver-headed walking stick, which he used as a veritable third +leg, perseveringly dotting the ground with its point at every few inches’ +interval. One would have said that he had been, in his day, a naval officer of +some sort or other. +</p> + +<p> +Before him stretched the long, laborious road, dry, empty, and white. It was +quite open to the heath on each side, and bisected that vast dark surface like +the parting-line on a head of black hair, diminishing and bending away on the +furthest horizon. +</p> + +<p> +The old man frequently stretched his eyes ahead to gaze over the tract that he +had yet to traverse. At length he discerned, a long distance in front of him, a +moving spot, which appeared to be a vehicle, and it proved to be going the same +way as that in which he himself was journeying. It was the single atom of life +that the scene contained, and it only served to render the general loneliness +more evident. Its rate of advance was slow, and the old man gained upon it +sensibly. +</p> + +<p> +When he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in shape, but +singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked beside it; and, +like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that tincture covered his +clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his face, and his hands. He was not +temporarily overlaid with the colour; it permeated him. +</p> + +<p> +The old man knew the meaning of this. The traveller with the cart was a +reddleman—a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding +for their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in Wessex, +filling at present in the rural world the place which, during the last century, +the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a curious, interesting, and +nearly perished link between obsolete forms of life and those which generally +prevail. +</p> + +<p> +The decayed officer, by degrees, came up alongside his fellow-wayfarer, and +wished him good evening. The reddleman turned his head, and replied in sad and +occupied tones. He was young, and his face, if not exactly handsome, approached +so near to handsome that nobody would have contradicted an assertion that it +really was so in its natural colour. His eye, which glared so strangely through +his stain, was in itself attractive—keen as that of a bird of prey, and +blue as autumn mist. He had neither whisker nor moustache, which allowed the +soft curves of the lower part of his face to be apparent. His lips were thin, +and though, as it seemed, compressed by thought, there was a pleasant twitch at +their corners now and then. He was clothed throughout in a tight-fitting suit +of corduroy, excellent in quality, not much worn, and well-chosen for its +purpose, but deprived of its original colour by his trade. It showed to +advantage the good shape of his figure. A certain well-to-do air about the man +suggested that he was not poor for his degree. The natural query of an observer +would have been, Why should such a promising being as this have hidden his +prepossessing exterior by adopting that singular occupation? +</p> + +<p> +After replying to the old man’s greeting he showed no inclination to +continue in talk, although they still walked side by side, for the elder +traveller seemed to desire company. There were no sounds but that of the +booming wind upon the stretch of tawny herbage around them, the crackling +wheels, the tread of the men, and the footsteps of the two shaggy ponies which +drew the van. They were small, hardy animals, of a breed between Galloway and +Exmoor, and were known as “heath-croppers” here. +</p> + +<p> +Now, as they thus pursued their way, the reddleman occasionally left his +companion’s side, and, stepping behind the van, looked into its interior +through a small window. The look was always anxious. He would then return to +the old man, who made another remark about the state of the country and so on, +to which the reddleman again abstractedly replied, and then again they would +lapse into silence. The silence conveyed to neither any sense of awkwardness; +in these lonely places wayfarers, after a first greeting, frequently plod on +for miles without speech; contiguity amounts to a tacit conversation where, +otherwise than in cities, such contiguity can be put an end to on the merest +inclination, and where not to put an end to it is intercourse in itself. +</p> + +<p> +Possibly these two might not have spoken again till their parting, had it not +been for the reddleman’s visits to his van. When he returned from his +fifth time of looking in the old man said, “You have something inside +there besides your load?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody who wants looking after?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Not long after this a faint cry sounded from the interior. The reddleman +hastened to the back, looked in, and came away again. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a child there, my man?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I have a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“The deuce you have! Why did she cry out?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she has fallen asleep, and not being used to traveling, she’s +uneasy, and keeps dreaming.” +</p> + +<p> +“A young woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a young woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would have interested me forty years ago. Perhaps she’s your +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“My wife!” said the other bitterly. “She’s above mating +with such as I. But there’s no reason why I should tell you about +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true. And there’s no reason why you should not. What +harm can I do to you or to her?” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman looked in the old man’s face. “Well, sir,” he +said at last, “I knew her before today, though perhaps it would have been +better if I had not. But she’s nothing to me, and I am nothing to her; +and she wouldn’t have been in my van if any better carriage had been +there to take her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“At Anglebury.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know the town well. What was she doing there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not much—to gossip about. However, she’s tired to death +now, and not at all well, and that’s what makes her so restless. She +dropped off into a nap about an hour ago, and ’twill do her good.” +</p> + +<p> +“A nice-looking girl, no doubt?” +</p> + +<p> +“You would say so.” +</p> + +<p> +The other traveller turned his eyes with interest towards the van window, and, +without withdrawing them, said, “I presume I might look in upon +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the reddleman abruptly. “It is getting too dark +for you to see much of her; and, more than that, I have no right to allow you. +Thank God she sleeps so well, I hope she won’t wake till she’s +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is she? One of the neighbourhood?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis no matter who, excuse me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not that girl of Blooms-End, who has been talked about more or +less lately? If so, I know her; and I can guess what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis no matter.... Now, sir, I am sorry to say that we shall soon +have to part company. My ponies are tired, and I have further to go, and I am +going to rest them under this bank for an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +The elder traveller nodded his head indifferently, and the reddleman turned his +horses and van in upon the turf, saying, “Good night.” The old man +replied, and proceeded on his way as before. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman watched his form as it diminished to a speck on the road and +became absorbed in the thickening films of night. He then took some hay from a +truss which was slung up under the van, and, throwing a portion of it in front +of the horses, made a pad of the rest, which he laid on the ground beside his +vehicle. Upon this he sat down, leaning his back against the wheel. From the +interior a low soft breathing came to his ear. It appeared to satisfy him, and +he musingly surveyed the scene, as if considering the next step that he should +take. +</p> + +<p> +To do things musingly, and by small degrees, seemed, indeed, to be a duty in +the Egdon valleys at this transitional hour, for there was that in the +condition of the heath itself which resembled protracted and halting +dubiousness. It was the quality of the repose appertaining to the scene. This +was not the repose of actual stagnation, but the apparent repose of incredible +slowness. A condition of healthy life so nearly resembling the torpor of death +is a noticeable thing of its sort; to exhibit the inertness of the desert, and +at the same time to be exercising powers akin to those of the meadow, and even +of the forest, awakened in those who thought of it the attentiveness usually +engendered by understatement and reserve. +</p> + +<p> +The scene before the reddleman’s eyes was a gradual series of ascents +from the level of the road backward into the heart of the heath. It embraced +hillocks, pits, ridges, acclivities, one behind the other, till all was +finished by a high hill cutting against the still light sky. The +traveller’s eye hovered about these things for a time, and finally +settled upon one noteworthy object up there. It was a barrow. This bossy +projection of earth above its natural level occupied the loftiest ground of the +loneliest height that the heath contained. Although from the vale it appeared +but as a wart on an Atlantean brow, its actual bulk was great. It formed the +pole and axis of this heathery world. +</p> + +<p> +As the resting man looked at the barrow he became aware that its summit, +hitherto the highest object in the whole prospect round, was surmounted by +something higher. It rose from the semiglobular mound like a spike from a +helmet. The first instinct of an imaginative stranger might have been to +suppose it the person of one of the Celts who built the barrow, so far had all +of modern date withdrawn from the scene. It seemed a sort of last man among +them, musing for a moment before dropping into eternal night with the rest of +his race. +</p> + +<p> +There the form stood, motionless as the hill beneath. Above the plain rose the +hill, above the hill rose the barrow, and above the barrow rose the figure. +Above the figure was nothing that could be mapped elsewhere than on a celestial +globe. +</p> + +<p> +Such a perfect, delicate, and necessary finish did the figure give to the dark +pile of hills that it seemed to be the only obvious justification of their +outline. Without it, there was the dome without the lantern; with it the +architectural demands of the mass were satisfied. The scene was strangely +homogeneous, in that the vale, the upland, the barrow, and the figure above it +amounted only to unity. Looking at this or that member of the group was not +observing a complete thing, but a fraction of a thing. +</p> + +<p> +The form was so much like an organic part of the entire motionless structure +that to see it move would have impressed the mind as a strange phenomenon. +Immobility being the chief characteristic of that whole which the person formed +portion of, the discontinuance of immobility in any quarter suggested +confusion. +</p> + +<p> +Yet that is what happened. The figure perceptibly gave up its fixity, shifted a +step or two, and turned round. As if alarmed, it descended on the right side of +the barrow, with the glide of a water-drop down a bud, and then vanished. The +movement had been sufficient to show more clearly the characteristics of the +figure, and that it was a woman’s. +</p> + +<p> +The reason of her sudden displacement now appeared. With her dropping out of +sight on the right side, a newcomer, bearing a burden, protruded into the sky +on the left side, ascended the tumulus, and deposited the burden on the top. A +second followed, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, and ultimately the whole +barrow was peopled with burdened figures. +</p> + +<p> +The only intelligible meaning in this sky-backed pantomime of silhouettes was +that the woman had no relation to the forms who had taken her place, was +sedulously avoiding these, and had come thither for another object than theirs. +The imagination of the observer clung by preference to that vanished, solitary +figure, as to something more interesting, more important, more likely to have a +history worth knowing than these newcomers, and unconsciously regarded them as +intruders. But they remained, and established themselves; and the lonely person +who hitherto had been queen of the solitude did not at present seem likely to +return. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III.<br /> +The Custom of the Country</h2> + +<p> +Had a looker-on been posted in the immediate vicinity of the barrow, he would +have learned that these persons were boys and men of the neighbouring hamlets. +Each, as he ascended the barrow, had been heavily laden with furze faggots, +carried upon the shoulder by means of a long stake sharpened at each end for +impaling them easily—two in front and two behind. They came from a part +of the heath a quarter of a mile to the rear, where furze almost exclusively +prevailed as a product. +</p> + +<p> +Every individual was so involved in furze by his method of carrying the faggots +that he appeared like a bush on legs till he had thrown them down. The party +had marched in trail, like a travelling flock of sheep; that is to say, the +strongest first, the weak and young behind. +</p> + +<p> +The loads were all laid together, and a pyramid of furze thirty feet in +circumference now occupied the crown of the tumulus, which was known as +Rainbarrow for many miles round. Some made themselves busy with matches, and in +selecting the driest tufts of furze, others in loosening the bramble bonds +which held the faggots together. Others, again, while this was in progress, +lifted their eyes and swept the vast expanse of country commanded by their +position, now lying nearly obliterated by shade. In the valleys of the heath +nothing save its own wild face was visible at any time of day; but this spot +commanded a horizon enclosing a tract of far extent, and in many cases lying +beyond the heath country. None of its features could be seen now, but the whole +made itself felt as a vague stretch of remoteness. +</p> + +<p> +While the men and lads were building the pile, a change took place in the mass +of shade which denoted the distant landscape. Red suns and tufts of fire one by +one began to arise, flecking the whole country round. They were the bonfires of +other parishes and hamlets that were engaged in the same sort of commemoration. +Some were distant, and stood in a dense atmosphere, so that bundles of pale +straw-like beams radiated around them in the shape of a fan. Some were large +and near, glowing scarlet-red from the shade, like wounds in a black hide. Some +were Mænades, with winy faces and blown hair. These tinctured the silent bosom +of the clouds above them and lit up their ephemeral caves, which seemed +thenceforth to become scalding caldrons. Perhaps as many as thirty bonfires +could be counted within the whole bounds of the district; and as the hour may +be told on a clock-face when the figures themselves are invisible, so did the +men recognize the locality of each fire by its angle and direction, though +nothing of the scenery could be viewed. +</p> + +<p> +The first tall flame from Rainbarrow sprang into the sky, attracting all eyes +that had been fixed on the distant conflagrations back to their own attempt in +the same kind. The cheerful blaze streaked the inner surface of the human +circle—now increased by other stragglers, male and female—with its +own gold livery, and even overlaid the dark turf around with a lively +luminousness, which softened off into obscurity where the barrow rounded +downwards out of sight. It showed the barrow to be the segment of a globe, as +perfect as on the day when it was thrown up, even the little ditch remaining +from which the earth was dug. Not a plough had ever disturbed a grain of that +stubborn soil. In the heath’s barrenness to the farmer lay its fertility +to the historian. There had been no obliteration, because there had been no +tending. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed as if the bonfire-makers were standing in some radiant upper story of +the world, detached from and independent of the dark stretches below. The heath +down there was now a vast abyss, and no longer a continuation of what they +stood on; for their eyes, adapted to the blaze, could see nothing of the deeps +beyond its influence. Occasionally, it is true, a more vigorous flare than +usual from their faggots sent darting lights like aides-de-camp down the +inclines to some distant bush, pool, or patch of white sand, kindling these to +replies of the same colour, till all was lost in darkness again. Then the whole +black phenomenon beneath represented Limbo as viewed from the brink by the +sublime Florentine in his vision, and the muttered articulations of the wind in +the hollows were as complaints and petitions from the “souls of mighty +worth” suspended therein. +</p> + +<p> +It was as if these men and boys had suddenly dived into past ages, and fetched +therefrom an hour and deed which had before been familiar with this spot. The +ashes of the original British pyre which blazed from that summit lay fresh and +undisturbed in the barrow beneath their tread. The flames from funeral piles +long ago kindled there had shone down upon the lowlands as these were shining +now. Festival fires to Thor and Woden had followed on the same ground and duly +had their day. Indeed, it is pretty well known that such blazes as this the +heathmen were now enjoying are rather the lineal descendants from jumbled +Druidical rites and Saxon ceremonies than the invention of popular feeling +about Gunpowder Plot. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover to light a fire is the instinctive and resistant act of man when, at +the winter ingress, the curfew is sounded throughout Nature. It indicates a +spontaneous, Promethean rebelliousness against that fiat that this recurrent +season shall bring foul times, cold darkness, misery and death. Black chaos +comes, and the fettered gods of the earth say, Let there be light. +</p> + +<p> +The brilliant lights and sooty shades which struggled upon the skin and clothes +of the persons standing round caused their lineaments and general contours to +be drawn with Dureresque vigour and dash. Yet the permanent moral expression of +each face it was impossible to discover, for as the nimble flames towered, +nodded, and swooped through the surrounding air, the blots of shade and flakes +of light upon the countenances of the group changed shape and position +endlessly. All was unstable; quivering as leaves, evanescent as lightning. +Shadowy eye-sockets, deep as those of a death’s head, suddenly turned +into pits of lustre: a lantern-jaw was cavernous, then it was shining; wrinkles +were emphasized to ravines, or obliterated entirely by a changed ray. Nostrils +were dark wells; sinews in old necks were gilt mouldings; things with no +particular polish on them were glazed; bright objects, such as the tip of a +furze-hook one of the men carried, were as glass; eyeballs glowed like little +lanterns. Those whom Nature had depicted as merely quaint became grotesque, the +grotesque became preternatural; for all was in extremity. +</p> + +<p> +Hence it may be that the face of an old man, who had like others been called to +the heights by the rising flames, was not really the mere nose and chin that it +appeared to be, but an appreciable quantity of human countenance. He stood +complacently sunning himself in the heat. With a speaker, or stake, he tossed +the outlying scraps of fuel into the conflagration, looking at the midst of the +pile, occasionally lifting his eyes to measure the height of the flame, or to +follow the great sparks which rose with it and sailed away into darkness. The +beaming sight, and the penetrating warmth, seemed to breed in him a cumulative +cheerfulness, which soon amounted to delight. With his stick in his hand he +began to jig a private minuet, a bunch of copper seals shining and swinging +like a pendulum from under his waistcoat: he also began to sing, in the voice +of a bee up a flue— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The king′ call’d down′ his no-bles all′,<br /> +By one′, by two′, by three′;<br /> +Earl Mar′-shal, I’ll′ go shrive′-the +queen′,<br /> +And thou′ shalt wend′ with me′.<br /> +<br /> +“A boon′, a boon′, quoth Earl′ +Mar-shal′,<br /> +And fell′ on his bend′-ded knee′,<br /> +That what′-so-e’er′ the queen′ shall +say′,<br /> +No harm′ there-of′ may be′.” +</p> + +<p> +Want of breath prevented a continuance of the song; and the breakdown attracted +the attention of a firm-standing man of middle age, who kept each corner of his +crescent-shaped mouth rigorously drawn back into his cheek, as if to do away +with any suspicion of mirthfulness which might erroneously have attached to +him. +</p> + +<p> +“A fair stave, Grandfer Cantle; but I am afeard ’tis too much for +the mouldy weasand of such a old man as you,” he said to the wrinkled +reveller. “Dostn’t wish th’ wast three sixes again, Grandfer, +as you was when you first learnt to sing it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hey?” said Grandfer Cantle, stopping in his dance. +</p> + +<p> +“Dostn’t wish wast young again, I say? There’s a hole in thy +poor bellows nowadays seemingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s good art in me? If I couldn’t make a little wind +go a long ways I should seem no younger than the most aged man, should I, +Timothy?” +</p> + +<p> +“And how about the new-married folks down there at the Quiet Woman +Inn?” the other inquired, pointing towards a dim light in the direction +of the distant highway, but considerably apart from where the reddleman was at +that moment resting. “What’s the rights of the matter about +’em? You ought to know, being an understanding man.” +</p> + +<p> +“But a little rakish, hey? I own to it. Master Cantle is that, or +he’s nothing. Yet ’tis a gay fault, neighbour Fairway, that age +will cure.” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard that they were coming home tonight. By this time they must have +come. What besides?” +</p> + +<p> +“The next thing is for us to go and wish ’em joy, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“No? Now, I thought we must. I must, or ’twould be very unlike +me—the first in every spree that’s going! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Do thou′ put on′ a fri′-ar’s +coat′,<br /> +And I’ll′ put on′ a-no′-ther,<br /> +And we′ will to′ Queen Ele′anor go′,<br /> +Like Fri′ar and′ his bro′ther. +</p> + +<p> +I met Mis’ess Yeobright, the young bride’s aunt, last night, and +she told me that her son Clym was coming home a’ Christmas. Wonderful +clever, ’a believe—ah, I should like to have all that’s under +that young man’s hair. Well, then, I spoke to her in my well-known merry +way, and she said, ‘O that what’s shaped so venerable should talk +like a fool!’—that’s what she said to me. I don’t care +for her, be jowned if I do, and so I told her. ‘Be jowned if I care for +’ee,’ I said. I had her there—hey?” +</p> + +<p> +“I rather think she had you,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Grandfer Cantle, his countenance slightly flagging. +“’Tisn’t so bad as that with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seemingly ’tis, however, is it because of the wedding that Clym is +coming home a’ Christmas—to make a new arrangement because his +mother is now left in the house alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes—that’s it. But, Timothy, hearken to me,” said +the Grandfer earnestly. “Though known as such a joker, I be an +understanding man if you catch me serious, and I am serious now. I can tell +’ee lots about the married couple. Yes, this morning at six o’clock +they went up the country to do the job, and neither vell nor mark have been +seen of ’em since, though I reckon that this afternoon has brought +’em home again man and woman—wife, that is. Isn’t it spoke +like a man, Timothy, and wasn’t Mis’ess Yeobright wrong about +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it will do. I didn’t know the two had walked together since +last fall, when her aunt forbad the banns. How long has this new set-to been in +mangling then? Do you know, Humphrey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, how long?” said Grandfer Cantle smartly, likewise turning to +Humphrey. “I ask that question.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, I was at church that day,” said Fairway, “which +was a very curious thing to happen.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a serious job to have things happen to ’ee +there,” said a woman behind. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So ’twould, neighbour Fairway.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 +schoolchildren? Well, he would about have matched that woman’s face, when +she said, ‘I forbid the banns.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now the maid have married him just the same,” said Humphrey. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 doing it +quiet, if I must own it. A wedding at home means five and six-handed reels by +the hour; and they do a man’s legs no good when he’s over +forty.” +</p> + +<p> +“True. Once at the woman’s house you can hardly say nay to being +one in a jig, knowing all the time that you be expected to make yourself worth +your victuals.” +</p> + +<p> +“You be bound to dance at Christmas because ’tis the time o’ +year; you must dance at weddings because ’tis the time o’ life. At +christenings folk will even smuggle in a reel or two, if ’tis no further +on than the first or second chiel. And this is not naming the songs +you’ve got to sing.... For my part I like a good hearty funeral as well +as anything. You’ve as splendid victuals and drink as at other parties, +and even better. And it don’t wear your legs to stumps in talking over a +poor fellow’s ways as it do to stand up in hornpipes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nine folks out of ten would own ’twas going too far to dance then, +I suppose?” suggested Grandfer Cantle. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis the only sort of party a staid man can feel safe at after the +mug have been round a few times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t understand a quiet ladylike little body like Tamsin +Yeobright caring to be married in such a mean way,” said Susan Nunsuch, +the wide woman, who preferred the original subject. “’Tis worse +than the poorest do. And I shouldn’t have cared about the man, though +some may say he’s good-looking.” +</p> + +<p> +“To give him his due he’s a clever, learned fellow in his +way—a’most as clever as Clym Yeobright used to be. He was brought +up to better things than keeping the Quiet Woman. An +engineer—that’s what the man was, as we know; but he threw away his +chance, and so ’a took a public house to live. His learning was no use to +him at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very often the case,” said Olly, the besom-maker. “And yet +how people do strive after it and get it! The class of folk that couldn’t +use to make a round O to save their bones from the pit can write their names +now without a sputter of the pen, oftentimes without a single blot—what +do I say?—why, almost without a desk to lean their stomachs and elbows +upon.” +</p> + +<p> +“True—’tis amazing what a polish the world have been brought +to,” said Humphrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, afore I went a soldier in the Bang-up Locals (as we was called), in +the year four,” chimed in Grandfer Cantle brightly, “I didn’t +know no more what the world was like than the commonest man among ye. And now, +jown it all, I won’t say what I bain’t fit for, hey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldst sign the book, no doubt,” said Fairway, “if wast +young enough to join hands with a woman again, like Wildeve and Mis’ess +Tamsin, which is more than Humph there could do, for he follows his father in +learning. Ah, Humph, well I can mind when I was married how I zid thy +father’s mark staring me in the face as I went to put down my name. He +and your mother were the couple married just afore we were and there stood they +father’s cross with arms stretched out like a great banging scarecrow. +What a terrible black cross that was—thy father’s very likeness in +en! To save my soul I couldn’t help laughing when I zid en, though all +the time I was as hot as dog-days, what with the marrying, and what with the +woman a-hanging to me, and what with Jack Changley and a lot more chaps +grinning at me through church window. But the next moment a strawmote would +have knocked me down, for I called to mind that if thy father and mother had +had high words once, they’d been at it twenty times since they’d +been man and wife, and I zid myself as the next poor stunpoll to get into the +same mess.... Ah—well, what a day ’twas!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wildeve is older than Tamsin Yeobright by a good-few summers. A pretty +maid too she is. A young woman with a home must be a fool to tear her smock for +a man like that.” +</p> + +<p> +The speaker, a peat- or turf-cutter, who had newly joined the group, carried +across his shoulder the singular heart-shaped spade of large dimensions used in +that species of labour, and its well-whetted edge gleamed like a silver bow in +the beams of the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“A hundred maidens would have had him if he’d asked +’em,” said the wide woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Didst ever know a man, neighbour, that no woman at all would +marry?” inquired Humphrey. +</p> + +<p> +“I never did,” said the turf-cutter. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” said another. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” said Grandfer Cantle. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, I did once,” said Timothy Fairway, adding more firmness +to one of his legs. “I did know of such a man. But only once, +mind.” He gave his throat a thorough rake round, as if it were the duty +of every person not to be mistaken through thickness of voice. “Yes, I +knew of such a man,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And what ghastly gallicrow might the poor fellow have been like, Master +Fairway?” asked the turf-cutter. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’a was neither a deaf man, nor a dumb man, nor a blind man. +What ’a was I don’t say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he known in these parts?” said Olly Dowden. +</p> + +<p> +“Hardly,” said Timothy; “but I name no name.... Come, keep +the fire up there, youngsters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever is Christian Cantle’s teeth a-chattering for?” said +a boy from amid the smoke and shades on the other side of the blaze. “Be +ye a-cold, Christian?” +</p> + +<p> +A thin jibbering voice was heard to reply, “No, not at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come forward, Christian, and show yourself. I didn’t know you were +here,” said Fairway, with a humane look across towards that quarter. +</p> + +<p> +Thus requested, a faltering man, with reedy hair, no shoulders, and a great +quantity of wrist and ankle beyond his clothes, advanced a step or two by his +own will, and was pushed by the will of others half a dozen steps more. He was +Grandfer Cantle’s youngest son. +</p> + +<p> +“What be ye quaking for, Christian?” said the turf-cutter kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m the man.” +</p> + +<p> +“What man?” +</p> + +<p> +“The man no woman will marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“The deuce you be!” said Timothy Fairway, enlarging his gaze to +cover Christian’s whole surface and a great deal more, Grandfer Cantle +meanwhile staring as a hen stares at the duck she has hatched. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I be he; and it makes me afeard,” said Christian. +“D’ye think ’twill hurt me? I shall always say I don’t +care, and swear to it, though I do care all the while.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, be damned if this isn’t the queerest start ever I +know’d,” said Mr. Fairway. “I didn’t mean you at all. +There’s another in the country, then! Why did ye reveal yer misfortune, +Christian?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas to be if ’twas, I suppose. I can’t help it, can +I?” He turned upon them his painfully circular eyes, surrounded by +concentric lines like targets. +</p> + +<p> +“No, that’s true. But ’tis a melancholy thing, and my blood +ran cold when you spoke, for I felt there were two poor fellows where I had +thought only one. ’Tis a sad thing for ye, Christian. How’st know +the women won’t hae thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve asked ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure I should never have thought you had the face. Well, and what did +the last one say to ye? Nothing that can’t be got over, perhaps, after +all?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Get out of my sight, you slack-twisted, slim-looking maphrotight +fool,’ was the woman’s words to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not encouraging, I own,” said Fairway. “‘Get out of my +sight, you slack-twisted, slim-looking maphrotight fool,’ is rather a +hard way of saying No. But even that might be overcome by time and patience, so +as to let a few grey hairs show themselves in the hussy’s head. How old +be you, Christian?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-one last tatie-digging, Mister Fairway.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a boy—not a boy. Still there’s hope yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my age by baptism, because that’s put down in the +great book of the Judgment that they keep in church vestry; but Mother told me +I was born some time afore I was christened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“But she couldn’t tell when, to save her life, except that there +was no moon.” +</p> + +<p> +“No moon—that’s bad. Hey, neighbours, that’s bad for +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ’tis bad,” said Grandfer Cantle, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother know’d ’twas no moon, for she asked another woman +that had an almanac, as she did whenever a boy was born to her, because of the +saying, ‘No moon, no man,’ which made her afeard every man-child +she had. Do ye really think it serious, Mister Fairway, that there was no +moon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. ‘No moon, no man.’ ’Tis one of the truest sayings +ever spit out. The boy never comes to anything that’s born at new moon. A +bad job for thee, Christian, that you should have showed your nose then of all +days in the month.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose the moon was terrible full when you were born?” said +Christian, with a look of hopeless admiration at Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’a was not new,” Mr. Fairway replied, with a +disinterested gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d sooner go without drink at Lammas-tide than be a man of no +moon,” continued Christian, in the same shattered recitative. +“’Tis said I be only the rames of a man, and no good for my race at +all; and I suppose that’s the cause o’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said Grandfer Cantle, somewhat subdued in spirit; “and +yet his mother cried for scores of hours when ’a was a boy, for fear he +should outgrow hisself and go for a soldier.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s many just as bad as he.” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Wethers must live their time as well as other sheep, poor soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“So perhaps I shall rub on? Ought I to be afeared o’ nights, Master +Fairway?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have to lie alone all your life; and ’tis not to +married couples but to single sleepers that a ghost shows himself when ’a +do come. One has been seen lately, too. A very strange one.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—don’t talk about it if ’tis agreeable of ye not to! +’Twill make my skin crawl when I think of it in bed alone. But you +will—ah, you will, I know, Timothy; and I shall dream all night +o’t! A very strange one? What sort of a spirit did ye mean when ye said, +a very strange one, Timothy?—no, no—don’t tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t half believe in spirits myself. But I think it ghostly +enough—what I was told. ’Twas a little boy that zid it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was it like?—no, don’t—” +</p> + +<p> +“A red one. Yes, most ghosts be white; but this is as if it had been +dipped in blood.” +</p> + +<p> +Christian drew a deep breath without letting it expand his body, and Humphrey +said, “Where has it been seen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not exactly here; but in this same heth. But ’tisn’t a thing +to talk about. What do ye say,” continued Fairway in brisker tones, and +turning upon them as if the idea had not been Grandfer +Cantle’s—“what do you say to giving the new man and wife a +bit of a song tonight afore we go to bed—being their wedding-day? When +folks are just married ’tis as well to look glad o’t, since looking +sorry won’t unjoin ’em. I am no drinker, as we know, but when the +womenfolk and youngsters have gone home we can drop down across to the Quiet +Woman, and strike up a ballet in front of the married folks’ door. +’Twill please the young wife, and that’s what I should like to do, +for many’s the skinful I’ve had at her hands when she lived with +her aunt at Blooms-End.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hey? And so we will!” said Grandfer Cantle, turning so briskly +that his copper seals swung extravagantly. “I’m as dry as a kex +with biding up here in the wind, and I haven’t seen the colour of drink +since nammet-time today. ’Tis said that the last brew at the Woman is +very pretty drinking. And, neighbours, if we should be a little late in the +finishing, why, tomorrow’s Sunday, and we can sleep it off?” +</p> + +<p> +“Grandfer Cantle! you take things very careless for an old man,” +said the wide woman. +</p> + +<p> +“I take things careless; I do—too careless to please the women! +Klk! I’ll sing the ‘Jovial Crew,’ or any other song, when a +weak old man would cry his eyes out. Jown it; I am up for anything. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The king′ look’d o′-ver his left′ +shoul-der′,<br /> +And a grim′ look look′-ed hee′,<br /> +Earl Mar′-shal, he said′, but for′ my oath′<br /> +Or hang′-ed thou′ shouldst bee′.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s what we’ll do,” said Fairway. +“We’ll give ’em a song, an’ it please the Lord. +What’s the good of Thomasin’s cousin Clym a-coming home after the +deed’s done? He should have come afore, if so be he wanted to stop it, +and marry her himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he’s coming to bide with his mother a little time, as she +must feel lonely now the maid’s gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, ’tis very odd, but I never feel lonely—no, not at +all,” said Grandfer Cantle. “I am as brave in the nighttime as +a’ admiral!” +</p> + +<p> +The bonfire was by this time beginning to sink low, for the fuel had not been +of that substantial sort which can support a blaze long. Most of the other +fires within the wide horizon were also dwindling weak. Attentive observation +of their brightness, colour, and length of existence would have revealed the +quality of the material burnt, and through that, to some extent the natural +produce of the district in which each bonfire was situate. The clear, kingly +effulgence that had characterized the majority expressed a heath and furze +country like their own, which in one direction extended an unlimited number of +miles; the rapid flares and extinctions at other points of the compass showed +the lightest of fuel—straw, beanstalks, and the usual waste from arable +land. The most enduring of all—steady unaltering eyes like +Planets—signified wood, such as hazel-branches, thorn-faggots, and stout +billets. Fires of the last-mentioned materials were rare, and though +comparatively small in magnitude beside the transient blazes, now began to get +the best of them by mere long continuance. The great ones had perished, but +these remained. They occupied the remotest visible positions—sky-backed +summits rising out of rich coppice and plantation districts to the north, where +the soil was different, and heath foreign and strange. +</p> + +<p> +Save one; and this was the nearest of any, the moon of the whole shining +throng. It lay in a direction precisely opposite to that of the little window +in the vale below. Its nearness was such that, notwithstanding its actual +smallness, its glow infinitely transcended theirs. +</p> + +<p> +This quiet eye had attracted attention from time to time; and when their own +fire had become sunken and dim it attracted more; some even of the wood fires +more recently lighted had reached their decline, but no change was perceptible +here. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, how near that fire is!” said Fairway. +“Seemingly. I can see a fellow of some sort walking round it. Little and +good must be said of that fire, surely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can throw a stone there,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“And so can I!” said Grandfer Cantle. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, you can’t, my sonnies. That fire is not much less than a +mile off, for all that ’a seems so near.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis in the heath, but no furze,” said the turf-cutter. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis cleft-wood, that’s what ’tis,” said Timothy +Fairway. “Nothing would burn like that except clean timber. And +’tis on the knap afore the old captain’s house at Mistover. Such a +queer mortal as that man is! To have a little fire inside your own bank and +ditch, that nobody else may enjoy it or come anigh it! And what a zany an old +chap must be, to light a bonfire when there’s no youngsters to +please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cap’n Vye has been for a long walk today, and is quite tired +out,” said Grandfer Cantle, “so ’tisn’t likely to be +he.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he would hardly afford good fuel like that,” said the wide +woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it must be his granddaughter,” said Fairway. “Not that +a body of her age can want a fire much.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is very strange in her ways, living up there by herself, and such +things please her,” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a well-favoured maid enough,” said Humphrey the +furze-cutter, “especially when she’s got one of her dandy gowns +on.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true,” said Fairway. “Well, let her bonfire +burn an’t will. Ours is well-nigh out by the look o’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“How dark ’tis now the fire’s gone down!” said +Christian Cantle, looking behind him with his hare eyes. “Don’t ye +think we’d better get home-along, neighbours? The heth isn’t +haunted, I know; but we’d better get home.... Ah, what was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only the wind,” said the turf-cutter. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Fifth-of-Novembers ought to be kept up by night +except in towns. It should be by day in outstep, ill-accounted places like +this!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Christian. Lift up your spirits like a man! Susy, dear, you +and I will have a jig—hey, my honey?—before ’tis quite too +dark to see how well-favoured you be still, though so many summers have passed +since your husband, a son of a witch, snapped you up from me.” +</p> + +<p> +This was addressed to Susan Nunsuch; and the next circumstance of which the +beholders were conscious was a vision of the matron’s broad form whisking +off towards the space whereon the fire had been kindled. She was lifted bodily +by Mr. Fairway’s arm, which had been flung round her waist before she had +become aware of his intention. The site of the fire was now merely a circle of +ashes flecked with red embers and sparks, the furze having burnt completely +away. Once within the circle he whirled her round and round in a dance. She was +a woman noisily constructed; in addition to her enclosing framework of +whalebone and lath, she wore pattens summer and winter, in wet weather and in +dry, to preserve her boots from wear; and when Fairway began to jump about with +her, the clicking of the pattens, the creaking of the stays, and her screams of +surprise, formed a very audible concert. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll crack thy numskull for thee, you mandy chap!” said Mrs. +Nunsuch, as she helplessly danced round with him, her feet playing like +drumsticks among the sparks. “My ankles were all in a fever before, from +walking through that prickly furze, and now you must make ’em worse with +these vlankers!” +</p> + +<p> +The vagary of Timothy Fairway was infectious. The turf-cutter seized old Olly +Dowden, and, somewhat more gently, poussetted with her likewise. The young men +were not slow to imitate the example of their elders, and seized the maids; +Grandfer Cantle and his stick jigged in the form of a three-legged object among +the rest; and in half a minute all that could be seen on Rainbarrow was a +whirling of dark shapes amid a boiling confusion of sparks, which leapt around +the dancers as high as their waists. The chief noises were women’s shrill +cries, men’s laughter, Susan’s stays and pattens, Olly +Dowden’s “heu-heu-heu!” and the strumming of the wind upon +the furze-bushes, which formed a kind of tune to the demoniac measure they +trod. Christian alone stood aloof, uneasily rocking himself as he murmured, +“They ought not to do it—how the vlankers do fly! ’tis +tempting the Wicked one, ’tis.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was that?” said one of the lads, stopping. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—where?” said Christian, hastily closing up to the rest. +</p> + +<p> +The dancers all lessened their speed. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas behind you, Christian, that I heard it—down +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—’tis behind me!” Christian said. “Matthew, +Mark, Luke, and John, bless the bed that I lie on; four angels +guard—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue. What is it?” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Hoi-i-i-i!” cried a voice from the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Halloo-o-o-o!” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any cart track up across here to Mis’ess +Yeobright’s, of Blooms-End?” came to them in the same voice, as a +long, slim indistinct figure approached the barrow. +</p> + +<p> +“Ought we not to run home as hard as we can, neighbours, as ’tis +getting late?” said Christian. “Not run away from one another, you +know; run close together, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Scrape up a few stray locks of furze, and make a blaze, so that we can +see who the man is,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +When the flame arose it revealed a young man in tight raiment, and red from top +to toe. “Is there a track across here to Mis’ess Yeobright’s +house?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay—keep along the path down there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean a way two horses and a van can travel over?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes; you can get up the vale below here with time. The track is +rough, but if you’ve got a light your horses may pick along wi’ +care. Have ye brought your cart far up, neighbour reddleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve left it in the bottom, about half a mile back, I stepped on +in front to make sure of the way, as ’tis night-time, and I han’t +been here for so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well you can get up,” said Fairway. “What a turn it did +give me when I saw him!” he added to the whole group, the reddleman +included. “Lord’s sake, I thought, whatever fiery mommet is this +come to trouble us? No slight to your looks, reddleman, for ye bain’t +bad-looking in the groundwork, though the finish is queer. My meaning is just +to say how curious I felt. I half thought it ’twas the devil or the red +ghost the boy told of.” +</p> + +<p> +“It gied me a turn likewise,” said Susan Nunsuch, “for I had +a dream last night of a death’s head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ye talk o’t no more,” said Christian. “If +he had a handkerchief over his head he’d look for all the world like the +Devil in the picture of the Temptation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thank you for telling me,” said the young reddleman, smiling +faintly. “And good night t’ye all.” +</p> + +<p> +He withdrew from their sight down the barrow. +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy I’ve seen that young man’s face before,” said +Humphrey. “But where, or how, or what his name is, I don’t +know.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman had not been gone more than a few minutes when another person +approached the partially revived bonfire. It proved to be a well-known and +respected widow of the neighbourhood, of a standing which can only be expressed +by the word genteel. Her face, encompassed by the blackness of the receding +heath, showed whitely, and without half-lights, like a cameo. +</p> + +<p> +She was a woman of middle-age, with well-formed features of the type usually +found where perspicacity is the chief quality enthroned within. At moments she +seemed to be regarding issues from a Nebo denied to others around. She had +something of an estranged mien; the solitude exhaled from the heath was +concentrated in this face that had risen from it. The air with which she looked +at the heathmen betokened a certain unconcern at their presence, or at what +might be their opinions of her for walking in that lonely spot at such an hour, +thus indirectly implying that in some respect or other they were not up to her +level. The explanation lay in the fact that though her husband had been a small +farmer she herself was a curate’s daughter, who had once dreamt of doing +better things. +</p> + +<p> +Persons with any weight of character carry, like planets, their atmospheres +along with them in their orbits; and the matron who entered now upon the scene +could, and usually did, bring her own tone into a company. Her normal manner +among the heathfolk had that reticence which results from the consciousness of +superior communicative power. But the effect of coming into society and light +after lonely wandering in darkness is a sociability in the comer above its +usual pitch, expressed in the features even more than in words. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, ’tis Mis’ess Yeobright,” said Fairway. +“Mis’ess Yeobright, not ten minutes ago a man was here asking for +you—a reddleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he want?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t tell us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something to sell, I suppose; what it can be I am at a loss to +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear that your son Mr. Clym is coming home at Christmas, +ma’am,” said Sam, the turf-cutter. “What a dog he used to be +for bonfires!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I believe he is coming,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“He must be a fine fellow by this time,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a man now,” she replied quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis very lonesome for ’ee in the heth tonight, +mis’ess,” said Christian, coming from the seclusion he had hitherto +maintained. “Mind you don’t get lost. Egdon Heth is a bad place to +get lost in, and the winds do huffle queerer tonight than ever I heard +’em afore. Them that know Egdon best have been pixy-led here at +times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Christian?” said Mrs. Yeobright. “What made you +hide away from me?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas that I didn’t know you in this light, mis’ess; +and being a man of the mournfullest make, I was scared a little, that’s +all. Oftentimes if you could see how terrible down I get in my mind, +’twould make ’ee quite nervous for fear I should die by my +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t take after your father,” said Mrs. Yeobright, +looking towards the fire, where Grandfer Cantle, with some want of originality, +was dancing by himself among the sparks, as the others had done before. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Grandfer,” said Timothy Fairway, “we are ashamed of ye. +A reverent old patriarch man as you be—seventy if a day—to go +hornpiping like that by yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +“A harrowing old man, Mis’ess Yeobright,” said Christian +despondingly. “I wouldn’t live with him a week, so playward as he +is, if I could get away.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twould be more seemly in ye to stand still and welcome +Mis’ess Yeobright, and you the venerablest here, Grandfer Cantle,” +said the besom-woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Faith, and so it would,” said the reveller checking himself +repentantly. “I’ve such a bad memory, Mis’ess Yeobright, that +I forget how I’m looked up to by the rest of ’em. My spirits must +be wonderful good, you’ll say? But not always. ’Tis a weight upon a +man to be looked up to as commander, and I often feel it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to stop the talk,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “But I +must be leaving you now. I was passing down the Anglebury Road, towards my +niece’s new home, who is returning tonight with her husband; and seeing +the bonfire and hearing Olly’s voice among the rest I came up here to +learn what was going on. I should like her to walk with me, as her way is +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure, ma’am, I’m just thinking of moving,” said +Olly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you’ll be safe to meet the reddleman that I told ye +of,” said Fairway. “He’s only gone back to get his van. We +heard that your niece and her husband were coming straight home as soon as they +were married, and we are going down there shortly, to give ’em a song +o’ welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you indeed,” said Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“But we shall take a shorter cut through the furze than you can go with +long clothes; so we won’t trouble you to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well—are you ready, Olly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am. And there’s a light shining from your +niece’s window, see. It will help to keep us in the path.” +</p> + +<p> +She indicated the faint light at the bottom of the valley which Fairway had +pointed out; and the two women descended the tumulus. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV.<br /> +The Halt on the Turnpike Road</h2> + +<p> +Down, downward they went, and yet further down—their descent at each step +seeming to outmeasure their advance. Their skirts were scratched noisily by the +furze, their shoulders brushed by the ferns, which, though dead and dry, stood +erect as when alive, no sufficient winter weather having as yet arrived to beat +them down. Their Tartarean situation might by some have been called an +imprudent one for two unattended women. But these shaggy recesses were at all +seasons a familiar surrounding to Olly and Mrs. Yeobright; and the addition of +darkness lends no frightfulness to the face of a friend. +</p> + +<p> +“And so Tamsin has married him at last,” said Olly, when the +incline had become so much less steep that their foot-steps no longer required +undivided attention. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright answered slowly, “Yes; at last.” +</p> + +<p> +“How you will miss her—living with ’ee as a daughter, as she +always have.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do miss her.” +</p> + +<p> +Olly, though without the tact to perceive when remarks were untimely, was saved +by her very simplicity from rendering them offensive. Questions that would have +been resented in others she could ask with impunity. This accounted for Mrs. +Yeobright’s acquiescence in the revival of an evidently sore subject. +</p> + +<p> +“I was quite strook to hear you’d agreed to it, ma’am, that I +was,” continued the besom-maker. +</p> + +<p> +“You were not more struck by it than I should have been last year this +time, Olly. There are a good many sides to that wedding. I could not tell you +all of them, even if I tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“I felt myself that he was hardly solid-going enough to mate with your +family. Keeping an inn—what is it? But ’a’s clever, +that’s true, and they say he was an engineering gentleman once, but has +come down by being too outwardly given.” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw that, upon the whole, it would be better she should marry where +she wished.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor little thing, her feelings got the better of her, no doubt. +’Tis nature. Well, they may call him what they will—he’ve +several acres of heth-ground broke up here, besides the public house, and the +heth-croppers, and his manners be quite like a gentleman’s. And +what’s done cannot be undone.” +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “See, here’s the +wagon-track at last. Now we shall get along better.” +</p> + +<p> +The wedding subject was no further dwelt upon; and soon a faint diverging path +was reached, where they parted company, Olly first begging her companion to +remind Mr. Wildeve that he had not sent her sick husband the bottle of wine +promised on the occasion of his marriage. The besom-maker turned to the left +towards her own house, behind a spur of the hill, and Mrs. Yeobright followed +the straight track, which further on joined the highway by the Quiet Woman Inn, +whither she supposed her niece to have returned with Wildeve from their wedding +at Anglebury that day. +</p> + +<p> +She first reached Wildeve’s Patch, as it was called, a plot of land +redeemed from the heath, and after long and laborious years brought into +cultivation. The man who had discovered that it could be tilled died of the +labour; the man who succeeded him in possession ruined himself in fertilizing +it. Wildeve came like Amerigo Vespucci, and received the honours due to those +who had gone before. +</p> + +<p> +When Mrs. Yeobright had drawn near to the inn, and was about to enter, she saw +a horse and vehicle some two hundred yards beyond it, coming towards her, a man +walking alongside with a lantern in his hand. It was soon evident that this was +the reddleman who had inquired for her. Instead of entering the inn at once, +she walked by it and towards the van. +</p> + +<p> +The conveyance came close, and the man was about to pass her with little +notice, when she turned to him and said, “I think you have been inquiring +for me? I am Mrs. Yeobright of Blooms-End.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman started, and held up his finger. He stopped the horses, and +beckoned to her to withdraw with him a few yards aside, which she did, +wondering. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know me, ma’am, I suppose?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not,” said she. “Why, yes, I do! You are young +Venn—your father was a dairyman somewhere here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and I knew your niece, Miss Tamsin, a little. I have something bad +to tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“About her—no! She has just come home, I believe, with her husband. +They arranged to return this afternoon—to the inn beyond here.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s not there.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she’s here. She’s in my van,” he added slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“What new trouble has come?” murmured Mrs. Yeobright, putting her +hand over her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t explain much, ma’am. All I know is that, as I was +going along the road this morning, about a mile out of Anglebury, I heard +something trotting after me like a doe, and looking round there she was, white +as death itself. ‘Oh, Diggory Venn!’ she said, ‘I thought +’twas you—will you help me? I am in trouble.’” +</p> + +<p> +“How did she know your Christian name?” said Mrs. Yeobright +doubtingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I had met her as a lad before I went away in this trade. She asked then +if she might ride, and then down she fell in a faint. I picked her up and put +her in, and there she has been ever since. She has cried a good deal, but she +has hardly spoke; all she has told me being that she was to have been married +this morning. I tried to get her to eat something, but she couldn’t; and +at last she fell asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see her at once,” said Mrs. Yeobright, hastening towards +the van. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman followed with the lantern, and, stepping up first, assisted Mrs. +Yeobright to mount beside him. On the door being opened she perceived at the +end of the van an extemporized couch, around which was hung apparently all the +drapery that the reddleman possessed, to keep the occupant of the little couch +from contact with the red materials of his trade. A young girl lay thereon, +covered with a cloak. She was asleep, and the light of the lantern fell upon +her features. +</p> + +<p> +A fair, sweet, and honest country face was revealed, reposing in a nest of wavy +chestnut hair. It was between pretty and beautiful. Though her eyes were +closed, one could easily imagine the light necessarily shining in them as the +culmination of the luminous workmanship around. The groundwork of the face was +hopefulness; but over it now lay like a foreign substance a film of anxiety +and grief. The grief had been there so shortly as to have abstracted nothing of +the bloom, and had as yet but given a dignity to what it might eventually +undermine. The scarlet of her lips had not had time to abate, and just now it +appeared still more intense by the absence of the neighbouring and more +transient colour of her cheek. The lips frequently parted, with a murmur of +words. She seemed to belong rightly to a madrigal—to require viewing +through rhyme and harmony. +</p> + +<p> +One thing at least was obvious: she was not made to be looked at thus. The +reddleman had appeared conscious of as much, and, while Mrs. Yeobright looked +in upon her, he cast his eyes aside with a delicacy which well became him. The +sleeper apparently thought so too, for the next moment she opened her own. +</p> + +<p> +The lips then parted with something of anticipation, something more of doubt; +and her several thoughts and fractions of thoughts, as signalled by the changes +on her face, were exhibited by the light to the utmost nicety. An ingenuous, +transparent life was disclosed, as if the flow of her existence could be seen +passing within her. She understood the scene in a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, it is I, Aunt,” she cried. “I know how frightened you +are, and how you cannot believe it; but all the same, it is I who have come +home like this!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tamsin, Tamsin!” said Mrs. Yeobright, stooping over the young +woman and kissing her. “O my dear girl!” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin was now on the verge of a sob, but by an unexpected self-command she +uttered no sound. With a gentle panting breath she sat upright. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not expect to see you in this state, any more than you me,” +she went on quickly. “Where am I, Aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly home, my dear. In Egdon Bottom. What dreadful thing is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you in a moment. So near, are we? Then I will get out +and walk. I want to go home by the path.” +</p> + +<p> +“But this kind man who has done so much will, I am sure, take you right +on to my house?” said the aunt, turning to the reddleman, who had +withdrawn from the front of the van on the awakening of the girl, and stood in +the road. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you think it necessary to ask me? I will, of course,” +said he. +</p> + +<p> +“He is indeed kind,” murmured Thomasin. “I was once +acquainted with him, Aunt, and when I saw him today I thought I should prefer +his van to any conveyance of a stranger. But I’ll walk now. Reddleman, +stop the horses, please.” +</p> + +<p> +The man regarded her with tender reluctance, but stopped them +</p> + +<p> +Aunt and niece then descended from the van, Mrs. Yeobright saying to its owner, +“I quite recognize you now. What made you change from the nice business +your father left you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I did,” he said, and looked at Thomasin, who blushed a +little. “Then you’ll not be wanting me any more tonight, +ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright glanced around at the dark sky, at the hills, at the perishing +bonfires, and at the lighted window of the inn they had neared. “I think +not,” she said, “since Thomasin wishes to walk. We can soon run up +the path and reach home—we know it well.” +</p> + +<p> +And after a few further words they parted, the reddleman moving onwards with +his van, and the two women remaining standing in the road. As soon as the +vehicle and its driver had withdrawn so far as to be beyond all possible reach +of her voice, Mrs. Yeobright turned to her niece. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Thomasin,” she said sternly, “what’s the meaning +of this disgraceful performance?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V.<br /> +Perplexity among Honest People</h2> + +<p> +Thomasin 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Me? Think of yourself first.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was nobody’s fault. When we got there the parson wouldn’t +marry us because of some trifling irregularity in the license.” +</p> + +<p> +“What irregularity?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish he had never seen you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t he bring you back?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He seems to be at home,” said Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Must I come in, too, Aunt?” asked Thomasin faintly. “I +suppose not; it would be wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Entering the open passage, she tapped at the door of the private parlour, +unfastened it, and looked in. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what’s the meaning of it all?” demanded Mrs. Yeobright +haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you had been staying at Anglebury?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are very much to blame,” said Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury,” Thomasin pleaded. +“I proposed it because I was not known there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of +it,” replied Wildeve shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, dear,” said Wildeve, “if your aunt will excuse +us.” He led her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the +fire. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is very unpleasant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Thomasin murmured, “and I suppose I seem so now.... +Damon, what do you mean to do about me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do about you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course we do. We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and we marry +at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, real life is never at all like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he will be very unreasonable. In fact, you are all rather +unreasonable.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not, if I can help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your hand upon it, Damon.” +</p> + +<p> +He carelessly gave her his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, by my crown, what’s that?” he said suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it mean—it is not skimmity-riding, I hope?” she +said, with a frightened gaze at Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He told′ her that she′ was the joy′ of his +life′,<br /> +And if′ she’d con-sent′ he would make her his +wife′;<br /> +She could′ not refuse′ him; to church′ so they +went′,<br /> +Young Will was forgot′, and young Sue′ was content′;<br /> +And then′ was she kiss’d′ and set down′ on his +knee′,<br /> +No man′ in the world′ was so lov′-ing as +he′!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Wildeve, with dry resentment, his face as gloomy +as a thunderstorm. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Wildeve, “’tis some old mead. I hope you +will like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feel’d for all the world like some bold soldier after I had had +some once,” said Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall feel so again,” said Wildeve, with condescension, +“Cups or glasses, gentlemen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you don’t mind, we’ll have the beaker, and pass +’en round; ’tis better than heling it out in dribbles.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Right, Grandfer,” said Sam; and the mead then circulated. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that very dangerous?” said Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“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!’” +</p> + +<p> +“I can mind it,” said the furze-cutter. “’Twas a +wonderful thing that one body could hold it all and never mix the +fingering.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was Kingsbere church likewise,” Fairway recommenced, as one +opening a new vein of the same mine of interest. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve breathed the breath of one intolerably bored, and glanced through the +partition at the prisoners. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“’A was.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“As any friend would,” said Grandfer Cantle, the other listeners +expressing the same accord by the shorter way of nodding their heads. +</p> + +<p> +“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, ‘Oh for +such a man in our parish!’ But not a soul in Kingsbere could hold a +candle to Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it quite safe when the winder shook?” Christian inquired. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He was the last you’d have expected to drop off in the prime of +life,” said Humphrey. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“’A faltered on from one day to another, and then we heard he was +gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“D’ye think he had great pain when ’a died?” said +Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“O no—quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough to +be God A’mighty’s own man.” +</p> + +<p> +“And other folk—d’ye think ’twill be much pain to +’em, Mister Fairway?” +</p> + +<p> +“That depends on whether they be afeard.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It was lighted before ours was,” Fairway continued; “and yet +every one in the country round is out afore ’n.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps there’s meaning in it!” murmured Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“How meaning?” said Wildeve sharply. +</p> + +<p> +Christian was too scattered to reply, and Timothy helped him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ye say it, Father!” implored Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“But we’ll gie ’em another song?” said Grandfer Cantle. +“I’m as full of notes as a bird!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Grandfer,” said Wildeve. “But we will not trouble +you now. Some other day must do for that—when I have a party.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite believe you,” said that gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window; and this +was open. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Still waiting, are you, my lady?” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Instead of turning in the direction of home he pressed on rapidly by a path +under Rainbarrow towards what was evidently a signal light. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI.<br /> +The Figure against the Sky</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Cæsar anxious every year to get clear of its glooms before the +autumnal equinox, a kind of landscape and weather which leads travellers from +the South to describe our island as Homer’s Cimmerian land, was not, on +the face of it, friendly to women. +</p> + +<p> +It might reasonably have been supposed that she was listening to the wind, +which rose somewhat as the night advanced, and laid hold of the attention. The +wind, indeed, seemed made for the scene, as the scene seemed made for the hour. +Part of its tone was quite special; what was heard there could be heard nowhere +else. Gusts in innumerable series followed each other from the northwest, and +when each one of them raced past the sound of its progress resolved into three. +Treble, tenor, and bass notes were to be found therein. The general ricochet of +the whole over pits and prominences had the gravest pitch of the chime. Next +there could be heard the baritone buzz of a holly tree. Below these in force, +above them in pitch, a dwindled voice strove hard at a husky tune, which was +the peculiar local sound alluded to. Thinner and less immediately traceable +than the other two, it was far more impressive than either. In it lay what may +be called the linguistic peculiarity of the heath; and being audible nowhere on +earth off a heath, it afforded a shadow of reason for the woman’s +tenseness, which continued as unbroken as ever. +</p> + +<p> +Throughout the blowing of these plaintive November winds that note bore a great +resemblance to the ruins of human song which remain to the throat of fourscore +and ten. It was a worn whisper, dry and papery, and it brushed so distinctly +across the ear that, by the accustomed, the material minutiæ in which it +originated could be realized as by touch. It was the united products of +infinitesimal vegetable causes, and these were neither stems, leaves, fruit, +blades, prickles, lichen, nor moss. +</p> + +<p> +They were the mummied heathbells of the past summer, originally tender and +purple, now washed colourless by Michaelmas rains, and dried to dead skins by +October suns. So low was an individual sound from these that a combination of +hundreds only just emerged from silence, and the myriads of the whole declivity +reached the woman’s ear but as a shrivelled and intermittent recitative. +Yet scarcely a single accent among the many afloat tonight could have such +power to impress a listener with thoughts of its origin. One inwardly saw the +infinity of those combined multitudes; and perceived that each of the tiny +trumpets was seized on entered, scoured and emerged from by the wind as +thoroughly as if it were as vast as a crater. +</p> + +<p> +“The spirit moved them.” A meaning of the phrase forced itself upon +the attention; and an emotional listener’s fetichistic mood might have +ended in one of more advanced quality. It was not, after all, that the +left-hand expanse of old blooms spoke, or the right-hand, or those of the slope +in front; but it was the single person of something else speaking through each +at once. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, on the barrow, there mingled with all this wild rhetoric of night a +sound which modulated so naturally into the rest that its beginning and ending +were hardly to be distinguished. The bluffs, and the bushes, and the +heather-bells had broken silence; at last, so did the woman; and her +articulation was but as another phrase of the same discourse as theirs. Thrown +out on the winds it became twined in with them, and with them it flew away. +</p> + +<p> +What she uttered was a lengthened sighing, apparently at something in her mind +which had led to her presence here. There was a spasmodic abandonment about it +as if, in allowing herself to utter the sound the woman’s brain had +authorized what it could not regulate. One point was evident in this; that she +had been existing in a suppressed state, and not in one of languor, or +stagnation. +</p> + +<p> +Far away down the valley the faint shine from the window of the inn still +lasted on; and a few additional moments proved that the window, or what was +within it, had more to do with the woman’s sigh than had either her own +actions or the scene immediately around. She lifted her left hand, which held a +closed telescope. This she rapidly extended, as if she were well accustomed to +the operation, and raising it to her eye directed it towards the light beaming +from the inn. +</p> + +<p> +The handkerchief which had hooded her head was now a little thrown back, her +face being somewhat elevated. A profile was visible against the dull monochrome +of cloud around her; and it was as though side shadows from the features of +Sappho and Mrs. Siddons had converged upwards from the tomb to form an image +like neither but suggesting both. This, however, was mere superficiality. In +respect of character a face may make certain admissions by its outline; but it +fully confesses only in its changes. So much is this the case that what is +called the play of the features often helps more in understanding a man or +woman than the earnest labours of all the other members together. Thus the +night revealed little of her whose form it was embracing, for the mobile parts +of her countenance could not be seen. +</p> + +<p> +At last she gave up her spying attitude, closed the telescope, and turned to +the decaying embers. From these no appreciable beams now radiated, except when +a more than usually smart gust brushed over their faces and raised a fitful +glow which came and went like the blush of a girl. She stooped over the silent +circle, and selecting from the brands a piece of stick which bore the largest +live coal at its end, brought it to where she had been standing before. +</p> + +<p> +She held the brand to the ground, blowing the red coal with her mouth at the +same time; till it faintly illuminated the sod, and revealed a small object, +which turned out to be an hourglass, though she wore a watch. She blew long +enough to show that the sand had all slipped through. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said, as if surprised. +</p> + +<p> +The light raised by her breath had been very fitful, and a momentary +irradiation of flesh was all that it had disclosed of her face. That consisted +of two matchless lips and a cheek only, her head being still enveloped. She +threw away the stick, took the glass in her hand, the telescope under her arm, +and moved on. +</p> + +<p> +Along the ridge ran a faint foot-track, which the lady followed. Those who knew +it well called it a path; and, while a mere visitor would have passed it +unnoticed even by day, the regular haunters of the heath were at no loss for it +at midnight. The whole secret of following these incipient paths, when there +was not light enough in the atmosphere to show a turnpike road, lay in the +development of the sense of touch in the feet, which comes with years of +night-rambling in little-trodden spots. To a walker practised in such places a +difference between impact on maiden herbage, and on the crippled stalks of a +slight footway, is perceptible through the thickest boot or shoe. +</p> + +<p> +The solitary figure who walked this beat took no notice of the windy tune still +played on the dead heathbells. She did not turn her head to look at a group of +dark creatures further on, who fled from her presence as she skirted a ravine +where they fed. They were about a score of the small wild ponies known as +heath-croppers. They roamed at large on the undulations of Egdon, but in +numbers too few to detract much from the solitude. +</p> + +<p> +The pedestrian noticed nothing just now, and a clue to her abstraction was +afforded by a trivial incident. A bramble caught hold of her skirt, and checked +her progress. Instead of putting it off and hastening along, she yielded +herself up to the pull, and stood passively still. When she began to extricate +herself it was by turning round and round, and so unwinding the prickly switch. +She was in a desponding reverie. +</p> + +<p> +Her course was in the direction of the small undying fire which had drawn the +attention of the men on Rainbarrow and of Wildeve in the valley below. A faint +illumination from its rays began to glow upon her face, and the fire soon +revealed itself to be lit, not on the level ground, but on a salient corner or +redan of earth, at the junction of two converging bank fences. Outside was a +ditch, dry except immediately under the fire, where there was a large pool, +bearded all round by heather and rushes. In the smooth water of the pool the +fire appeared upside down. +</p> + +<p> +The banks meeting behind were bare of a hedge, save such as was formed by +disconnected tufts of furze, standing upon stems along the top, like impaled +heads above a city wall. A white mast, fitted up with spars and other nautical +tackle, could be seen rising against the dark clouds whenever the flames played +brightly enough to reach it. Altogether the scene had much the appearance of a +fortification upon which had been kindled a beacon fire. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody was visible; but ever and anon a whitish something moved above the bank +from behind, and vanished again. This was a small human hand, in the act of +lifting pieces of fuel into the fire, but for all that could be seen the hand, +like that which troubled Belshazzar, was there alone. Occasionally an ember +rolled off the bank, and dropped with a hiss into the pool. +</p> + +<p> +At one side of the pool rough steps built of clods enabled everyone who wished +to do so to mount the bank; which the woman did. Within was a paddock in an +uncultivated state, though bearing evidence of having once been tilled; but the +heath and fern had insidiously crept in, and were reasserting their old +supremacy. Further ahead were dimly visible an irregular dwelling-house, +garden, and outbuildings, backed by a clump of firs. +</p> + +<p> +The young lady—for youth had revealed its presence in her buoyant bound +up the bank—walked along the top instead of descending inside, and came +to the corner where the fire was burning. One reason for the permanence of the +blaze was now manifest: the fuel consisted of hard pieces of wood, cleft and +sawn—the knotty boles of old thorn trees which grew in twos and threes +about the hillsides. A yet unconsumed pile of these lay in the inner angle of +the bank; and from this corner the upturned face of a little boy greeted her +eyes. He was dilatorily throwing up a piece of wood into the fire every now and +then, a business which seemed to have engaged him a considerable part of the +evening, for his face was somewhat weary. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you have come, Miss Eustacia,” he said, with a sigh of +relief. “I don’t like biding by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense. I have only been a little way for a walk. I have been gone +only twenty minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seemed long,” murmured the sad boy. “And you have been so +many times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I thought you would be pleased to have a bonfire. Are you not much +obliged to me for making you one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but there’s nobody here to play wi’ me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose nobody has come while I’ve been away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody except your grandfather—he looked out of doors once for +’ee. I told him you were walking round upon the hill to look at the other +bonfires.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I hear him coming again, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +An old man came into the remoter light of the fire from the direction of the +homestead. He was the same who had overtaken the reddleman on the road that +afternoon. He looked wistfully to the top of the bank at the woman who stood +there, and his teeth, which were quite unimpaired, showed like parian from his +parted lips. +</p> + +<p> +“When are you coming indoors, Eustacia?” he asked. +“’Tis almost bedtime. I’ve been home these two hours, and am +tired out. Surely ’tis somewhat childish of you to stay out playing at +bonfires so long, and wasting such fuel. My precious thorn roots, the rarest of +all firing, that I laid by on purpose for Christmas—you have burnt +’em nearly all!” +</p> + +<p> +“I promised Johnny a bonfire, and it pleases him not to let it go out +just yet,” said Eustacia, in a way which told at once that she was +absolute queen here. “Grandfather, you go in to bed. I shall follow you +soon. You like the fire, don’t you, Johnny?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy looked up doubtfully at her and murmured, “I don’t think I +want it any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Her grandfather had turned back again, and did not hear the boy’s reply. +As soon as the white-haired man had vanished she said in a tone of pique to the +child, “Ungrateful little boy, how can you contradict me? Never shall you +have a bonfire again unless you keep it up now. Come, tell me you like to do +things for me, and don’t deny it.” +</p> + +<p> +The repressed child said, “Yes, I do, miss,” and continued to stir +the fire perfunctorily. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay a little longer and I will give you a crooked six-pence,” +said Eustacia, more gently. “Put in one piece of wood every two or three +minutes, but not too much at once. I am going to walk along the ridge a little +longer, but I shall keep on coming to you. And if you hear a frog jump into the +pond with a flounce like a stone thrown in, be sure you run and tell me, +because it is a sign of rain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Vye, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Vy—stacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will do. Now put in one stick more.” +</p> + +<p> +The little slave went on feeding the fire as before. He seemed a mere +automaton, galvanized into moving and speaking by the wayward Eustacia’s +will. He might have been the brass statue which Albertus Magnus is said to have +animated just so far as to make it chatter, and move, and be his servant. +</p> + +<p> +Before going on her walk again the young girl stood still on the bank for a few +instants and listened. It was to the full as lonely a place as Rainbarrow, +though at rather a lower level; and it was more sheltered from wind and weather +on account of the few firs to the north. The bank which enclosed the homestead, +and protected it from the lawless state of the world without, was formed of +thick square clods, dug from the ditch on the outside, and built up with a +slight batter or incline, which forms no slight defense where hedges will not +grow because of the wind and the wilderness, and where wall materials are +unattainable. Otherwise the situation was quite open, commanding the whole +length of the valley which reached to the river behind Wildeve’s house. +High above this to the right, and much nearer thitherward than the Quiet Woman +Inn, the blurred contour of Rainbarrow obstructed the sky. +</p> + +<p> +After her attentive survey of the wild slopes and hollow ravines a gesture of +impatience escaped Eustacia. She vented petulant words every now and then, but +there were sighs between her words, and sudden listenings between her sighs. +Descending from her perch she again sauntered off towards Rainbarrow, though +this time she did not go the whole way. +</p> + +<p> +Twice she reappeared at intervals of a few minutes and each time she +said— +</p> + +<p> +“Not any flounce into the pond yet, little man?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss Eustacia,” the child replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said at last, “I shall soon be going in, and then +I will give you the crooked sixpence, and let you go home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee, Miss Eustacia,” said the tired stoker, breathing +more easily. And Eustacia again strolled away from the fire, but this time not +towards Rainbarrow. She skirted the bank and went round to the wicket before +the house, where she stood motionless, looking at the scene. +</p> + +<p> +Fifty yards off rose the corner of the two converging banks, with the fire upon +it; within the bank, lifting up to the fire one stick at a time, just as +before, the figure of the little child. She idly watched him as he occasionally +climbed up in the nook of the bank and stood beside the brands. The wind blew +the smoke, and the child’s hair, and the corner of his pinafore, all in +the same direction; the breeze died, and the pinafore and hair lay still, and +the smoke went up straight. +</p> + +<p> +While Eustacia looked on from this distance the boy’s form visibly +started—he slid down the bank and ran across towards the white gate. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“A hopfrog have jumped into the pond. Yes, I heard ’en!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is going to rain, and you had better go home. You will not be +afraid?” She spoke hurriedly, as if her heart had leapt into her throat +at the boy’s words. +</p> + +<p> +“No, because I shall hae the crooked sixpence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, here it is. Now run as fast as you can—not that +way—through the garden here. No other boy in the heath has had such a +bonfire as yours.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy, who clearly had had too much of a good thing, marched away into the +shadows with alacrity. When he was gone Eustacia, leaving her telescope and +hourglass by the gate, brushed forward from the wicket towards the angle of the +bank, under the fire. +</p> + +<p> +Here, screened by the outwork, she waited. In a few moments a splash was +audible from the pond outside. Had the child been there he would have said that +a second frog had jumped in; but by most people the sound would have been +likened to the fall of a stone into the water. Eustacia stepped upon the bank. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” she said, and held her breath. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the contour of a man became dimly visible against the low-reaching +sky over the valley, beyond the outer margin of the pool. He came round it and +leapt upon the bank beside her. A low laugh escaped her—the third +utterance which the girl had indulged in tonight. The first, when she stood +upon Rainbarrow, had expressed anxiety; the second, on the ridge, had expressed +impatience; the present was one of triumphant pleasure. She let her joyous eyes +rest upon him without speaking, as upon some wondrous thing she had created out +of chaos. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come,” said the man, who was Wildeve. “You give me no +peace. Why do you not leave me alone? I have seen your bonfire all the +evening.” The words were not without emotion, and retained their level +tone as if by a careful equipoise between imminent extremes. +</p> + +<p> +At this unexpectedly repressing manner in her lover the girl seemed to repress +herself also. “Of course you have seen my fire,” she answered with +languid calmness, artificially maintained. “Why shouldn’t I have a +bonfire on the Fifth of November, like other denizens of the heath?” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it was meant for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know it? I have had no word with you since you—you +chose her, and walked about with her, and deserted me entirely, as if I had +never been yours life and soul so irretrievably!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eustacia! could I forget that last autumn at this same day of the month +and at this same place you lighted exactly such a fire as a signal for me to +come and see you? Why should there have been a bonfire again by Captain +Vye’s house if not for the same purpose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes—I own it,” she cried under her breath, with a +drowsy fervour of manner and tone which was quite peculiar to her. +“Don’t begin speaking to me as you did, Damon; you will drive me to +say words I would not wish to say to you. I had given you up, and resolved not +to think of you any more; and then I heard the news, and I came out and got the +fire ready because I thought that you had been faithful to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you heard to make you think that?” said Wildeve, +astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“That you did not marry her!” she murmured exultingly. “And I +knew it was because you loved me best, and couldn’t do it.... Damon, you +have been cruel to me to go away, and I have said I would never forgive you. I +do not think I can forgive you entirely, even now—it is too much for a +woman of any spirit to quite overlook.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had known you wished to call me up here only to reproach me, I +wouldn’t have come.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t mind it, and I do forgive you now that you have not +married her, and have come back to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you that I had not married her?” +</p> + +<p> +“My grandfather. He took a long walk today, and as he was coming home he +overtook some person who told him of a broken-off wedding—he thought it +might be yours, and I knew it was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does anybody else know?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not. Now Damon, do you see why I lit my signal fire? You did +not think I would have lit it if I had imagined you to have become the husband +of this woman. It is insulting my pride to suppose that.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve was silent; it was evident that he had supposed as much. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you indeed think I believed you were married?” she again +demanded earnestly. “Then you wronged me; and upon my life and heart I +can hardly bear to recognize that you have such ill thoughts of me! Damon, you +are not worthy of me—I see it, and yet I love you. Never mind, let it +go—I must bear your mean opinion as best I may.... It is true, is it +not,” she added with ill-concealed anxiety, on his making no +demonstration, “that you could not bring yourself to give me up, and are +still going to love me best of all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; or why should I have come?” he said touchily. “Not that +fidelity will be any great merit in me after your kind speech about my +unworthiness, which should have been said by myself if by anybody, and comes +with an ill grace from you. However, the curse of inflammability is upon me, +and I must live under it, and take any snub from a woman. It has brought me +down from engineering to innkeeping—what lower stage it has in store for +me I have yet to learn.” He continued to look upon her gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +She seized the moment, and throwing back the shawl so that the firelight shone +full upon her face and throat, said with a smile, “Have you seen anything +better than that in your travels?” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was not one to commit herself to such a position without good ground. +He said quietly, “No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not even on the shoulders of Thomasin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin is a pleasing and innocent woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s nothing to do with it,” she cried with quick +passionateness. “We will leave her out; there are only you and me now to +think of.” After a long look at him she resumed with the old quiescent +warmth, “Must I go on weakly confessing to you things a woman ought to +conceal; and own that no words can express how gloomy I have been because of +that dreadful belief I held till two hours ago—that you had quite +deserted me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry I caused you that pain.” +</p> + +<p> +“But perhaps it is not wholly because of you that I get gloomy,” +she archly added. “It is in my nature to feel like that. It was born in +my blood, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hypochondriasis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or else it was coming into this wild heath. I was happy enough at +Budmouth. O the times, O the days at Budmouth! But Egdon will be brighter again +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it will,” said Wildeve moodily. “Do you know the +consequence of this recall to me, my old darling? I shall come to see you again +as before, at Rainbarrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet I declare that until I got here tonight I intended, after this +one good-bye, never to meet you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t thank you for that,” she said, turning away, while +indignation spread through her like subterranean heat. “You may come +again to Rainbarrow if you like, but you won’t see me; and you may call, +but I shall not listen; and you may tempt me, but I won’t give myself to +you any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have said as much before, sweet; but such natures as yours +don’t so easily adhere to their words. Neither, for the matter of that, +do such natures as mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the pleasure I have won by my trouble,” she whispered +bitterly. “Why did I try to recall you? Damon, a strange warring takes +place in my mind occasionally. I think when I become calm after you woundings, +‘Do I embrace a cloud of common fog after all?’ You are a +chameleon, and now you are at your worst colour. Go home, or I shall hate +you!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked absently towards Rainbarrow while one might have counted twenty, and +said, as if he did not much mind all this, “Yes, I will go home. Do you +mean to see me again?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you own to me that the wedding is broken off because you love me +best.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it would be good policy,” said Wildeve, +smiling. “You would get to know the extent of your power too +clearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +“You know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is she now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I prefer not to speak of her to you. I have not yet +married her; I have come in obedience to your call. That is enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“I merely lit that fire because I was dull, and thought I would get a +little excitement by calling you up and triumphing over you as the Witch of +Endor called up Samuel. I determined you should come; and you have come! I have +shown my power. A mile and half hither, and a mile and half back again to your +home—three miles in the dark for me. Have I not shown my power?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head at her. “I know you too well, my Eustacia; I know you +too well. There isn’t a note in you which I don’t know; and that +hot little bosom couldn’t play such a cold-blooded trick to save its +life. I saw a woman on Rainbarrow at dusk looking down towards my house. I +think I drew out you before you drew out me.” +</p> + +<p> +The revived embers of an old passion glowed clearly in Wildeve now; and he +leant forward as if about to put his face towards her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“O no,” she said, intractably moving to the other side of the +decayed fire. “What did you mean by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I may kiss your hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, you may not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I may shake your hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I wish you good night without caring for either. Good-bye, +good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +She returned no answer, and with the bow of a dancing-master he vanished on the +other side of the pool as he had come. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia sighed—it was no fragile maiden sigh, but a sigh which shook her +like a shiver. Whenever a flash of reason darted like an electric light upon +her lover—as it sometimes would—and showed his imperfections, she +shivered thus. But it was over in a second, and she loved on. She knew that he +trifled with her; but she loved on. She scattered the half-burnt brands, went +indoors immediately, and up to her bedroom without a light. Amid the rustles +which denoted her to be undressing in the darkness other heavy breaths +frequently came; and the same kind of shudder occasionally moved through her +when, ten minutes later, she lay on her bed asleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII.<br /> +Queen of Night</h2> + +<p> +Eustacia Vye was the raw material of a divinity. On Olympus she would have done +well with a little preparation. She had the passions and instincts which make a +model goddess, that is, those which make not quite a model woman. Had it been +possible for the earth and mankind to be entirely in her grasp for a while, she +had handled the distaff, the spindle, and the shears at her own free will, few +in the world would have noticed the change of government. There would have been +the same inequality of lot, the same heaping up of favours here, of contumely +there, the same generosity before justice, the same perpetual dilemmas, the +same captious alteration of caresses and blows that we endure now. +</p> + +<p> +She was in person full-limbed and somewhat heavy; without ruddiness, as without +pallor; and soft to the touch as a cloud. To see her hair was to fancy that a +whole winter did not contain darkness enough to form its shadow—it closed +over her forehead like nightfall extinguishing the western glow. +</p> + +<p> +Her nerves extended into those tresses, and her temper could always be softened +by stroking them down. When her hair was brushed she would instantly sink into +stillness and look like the Sphinx. If, in passing under one of the Egdon +banks, any of its thick skeins were caught, as they sometimes were, by a +prickly tuft of the large <i>Ulex Europæus</i>—which will act as a sort +of hairbrush—she would go back a few steps, and pass against it a second +time. +</p> + +<p> +She had pagan eyes, full of nocturnal mysteries, and their light, as it came +and went, and came again, was partially hampered by their oppressive lids and +lashes; and of these the under lid was much fuller than it usually is with +English women. This enabled her to indulge in reverie without seeming to do +so—she might have been believed capable of sleeping without closing them +up. Assuming that the souls of men and women were visible essences, you could +fancy the colour of Eustacia’s soul to be flamelike. The sparks from it +that rose into her dark pupils gave the same impression. +</p> + +<p> +The mouth seemed formed less to speak than to quiver, less to quiver than to +kiss. Some might have added, less to kiss than to curl. Viewed sideways, the +closing-line of her lips formed, with almost geometric precision, the curve so +well known in the arts of design as the cima-recta, or ogee. The sight of such +a flexible bend as that on grim Egdon was quite an apparition. It was felt at +once that the mouth did not come over from Sleswig with a band of Saxon pirates +whose lips met like the two halves of a muffin. One had fancied that such +lip-curves were mostly lurking underground in the South as fragments of +forgotten marbles. So fine were the lines of her lips that, though full, each +corner of her mouth was as clearly cut as the point of a spear. This keenness +of corner was only blunted when she was given over to sudden fits of gloom, one +of the phases of the night-side of sentiment which she knew too well for her +years. +</p> + +<p> +Her presence brought memories of such things as Bourbon roses, rubies, and +tropical midnight; her moods recalled lotus-eaters and the march in Athalie; +her motions, the ebb and flow of the sea; her voice, the viola. In a dim light, +and with a slight rearrangement of her hair, her general figure might have +stood for that of either of the higher female deities. The new moon behind her +head, an old helmet upon it, a diadem of accidental dewdrops round her brow, +would have been adjuncts sufficient to strike the note of Artemis, Athena, or +Hera respectively, with as close an approximation to the antique as that which +passes muster on many respected canvases. +</p> + +<p> +But celestial imperiousness, love, wrath, and fervour had proved to be somewhat +thrown away on netherward Egdon. Her power was limited, and the consciousness +of this limitation had biassed her development. Egdon was her Hades, and since +coming there she had imbibed much of what was dark in its tone, though inwardly +and eternally unreconciled thereto. Her appearance accorded well with this +smouldering rebelliousness, and the shady splendour of her beauty was the real +surface of the sad and stifled warmth within her. A true Tartarean dignity sat +upon her brow, and not factitiously or with marks of constraint, for it had +grown in her with years. +</p> + +<p> +Across the upper part of her head she wore a thin fillet of black velvet, +restraining the luxuriance of her shady hair, in a way which added much to this +class of majesty by irregularly clouding her forehead. “Nothing can +embellish a beautiful face more than a narrow band drawn over the brow,” +says Richter. Some of the neighbouring girls wore coloured ribbon for the same +purpose, and sported metallic ornaments elsewhere; but if anyone suggested +coloured ribbon and metallic ornaments to Eustacia Vye she laughed and went on. +</p> + +<p> +Why did a woman of this sort live on Egdon Heath? Budmouth was her native +place, a fashionable seaside resort at that date. She was the daughter of the +bandmaster of a regiment which had been quartered there—a Corfiote by +birth, and a fine musician—who met his future wife during her trip +thither with her father the captain, a man of good family. The marriage was +scarcely in accord with the old man’s wishes, for the bandmaster’s +pockets were as light as his occupation. But the musician did his best; adopted +his wife’s name, made England permanently his home, took great trouble +with his child’s education, the expenses of which were defrayed by the +grandfather, and throve as the chief local musician till her mother’s +death, when he left off thriving, drank, and died also. The girl was left to +the care of her grandfather, who, since three of his ribs became broken in a +shipwreck, had lived in this airy perch on Egdon, a spot which had taken his +fancy because the house was to be had for next to nothing, and because a remote +blue tinge on the horizon between the hills, visible from the cottage door, was +traditionally believed to be the English Channel. She hated the change; she +felt like one banished; but here she was forced to abide. +</p> + +<p> +Thus it happened that in Eustacia’s brain were juxtaposed the strangest +assortment of ideas, from old time and from new. There was no middle distance +in her perspective—romantic recollections of sunny afternoons on an +esplanade, with military bands, officers, and gallants around, stood like +gilded letters upon the dark tablet of surrounding Egdon. Every bizarre effect +that could result from the random intertwining of watering-place glitter with +the grand solemnity of a heath, was to be found in her. Seeing nothing of human +life now, she imagined all the more of what she had seen. +</p> + +<p> +Where did her dignity come from? By a latent vein from Alcinous’ line, +her father hailing from Phæacia’s isle?—or from Fitzalan and De +Vere, her maternal grandfather having had a cousin in the peerage? Perhaps it +was the gift of Heaven—a happy convergence of natural laws. Among other +things opportunity had of late years been denied her of learning to be +undignified, for she lived lonely. Isolation on a heath renders vulgarity +well-nigh impossible. It would have been as easy for the heath-ponies, bats, +and snakes to be vulgar as for her. A narrow life in Budmouth might have +completely demeaned her. +</p> + +<p> +The only way to look queenly without realms or hearts to queen it over is to +look as if you had lost them; and Eustacia did that to a triumph. In the +captain’s cottage she could suggest mansions she had never seen. Perhaps +that was because she frequented a vaster mansion than any of them, the open +hills. Like the summer condition of the place around her, she was an embodiment +of the phrase “a populous solitude”—apparently so listless, +void, and quiet, she was really busy and full. +</p> + +<p> +To be loved to madness—such was her great desire. Love was to her the one +cordial which could drive away the eating loneliness of her days. And she +seemed to long for the abstraction called passionate love more than for any +particular lover. +</p> + +<p> +She could show a most reproachful look at times, but it was directed less +against human beings than against certain creatures of her mind, the chief of +these being Destiny, through whose interference she dimly fancied it arose that +love alighted only on gliding youth—that any love she might win would +sink simultaneously with the sand in the glass. She thought of it with an +ever-growing consciousness of cruelty, which tended to breed actions of +reckless unconventionality, framed to snatch a year’s, a week’s, +even an hour’s passion from anywhere while it could be won. Through want +of it she had sung without being merry, possessed without enjoying, outshone +without triumphing. Her loneliness deepened her desire. On Egdon, coldest and +meanest kisses were at famine prices, and where was a mouth matching hers to be +found? +</p> + +<p> +Fidelity in love for fidelity’s sake had less attraction for her than for +most women; fidelity because of love’s grip had much. A blaze of love, +and extinction, was better than a lantern glimmer of the same which should last +long years. On this head she knew by prevision what most women learn only by +experience—she had mentally walked round love, told the towers thereof, +considered its palaces, and concluded that love was but a doleful joy. Yet she +desired it, as one in a desert would be thankful for brackish water. +</p> + +<p> +She often repeated her prayers; not at particular times, but, like the +unaffectedly devout, when she desired to pray. Her prayer was always +spontaneous, and often ran thus, “O deliver my heart from this fearful +gloom and loneliness; send me great love from somewhere, else I shall +die.” +</p> + +<p> +Her high gods were William the Conqueror, Strafford, and Napoleon Buonaparte, +as they had appeared in the Lady’s History used at the establishment in +which she was educated. Had she been a mother she would have christened her +boys such names as Saul or Sisera in preference to Jacob or David, neither of +whom she admired. At school she had used to side with the Philistines in +several battles, and had wondered if Pontius Pilate were as handsome as he was +frank and fair. +</p> + +<p> +Thus she was a girl of some forwardness of mind, indeed, weighed in relation to +her situation among the very rearward of thinkers, very original. Her instincts +towards social non-comformity were at the root of this. In the matter of +holidays, her mood was that of horses who, when turned out to grass, enjoy +looking upon their kind at work on the highway. She only valued rest to herself +when it came in the midst of other people’s labour. Hence she hated +Sundays when all was at rest, and often said they would be the death of her. To +see the heathmen in their Sunday condition, that is, with their hands in their +pockets, their boots newly oiled, and not laced up (a particularly Sunday +sign), walking leisurely among the turves and furze-faggots they had cut during +the week, and kicking them critically as if their use were unknown, was a +fearful heaviness to her. To relieve the tedium of this untimely day she would +overhaul the cupboards containing her grandfather’s old charts and other +rubbish, humming Saturday-night ballads of the country people the while. But on +Saturday nights she would frequently sing a psalm, and it was always on a +weekday that she read the Bible, that she might be unoppressed with a sense of +doing her duty. +</p> + +<p> +Such views of life were to some extent the natural begettings of her situation +upon her nature. To dwell on a heath without studying its meanings was like +wedding a foreigner without learning his tongue. The subtle beauties of the +heath were lost to Eustacia; she only caught its vapours. An environment which +would have made a contented woman a poet, a suffering woman a devotee, a pious +woman a psalmist, even a giddy woman thoughtful, made a rebellious woman +saturnine. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia had got beyond the vision of some marriage of inexpressible glory; +yet, though her emotions were in full vigour, she cared for no meaner union. +Thus we see her in a strange state of isolation. To have lost the godlike +conceit that we may do what we will, and not to have acquired a homely zest for +doing what we can, shows a grandeur of temper which cannot be objected to in +the abstract, for it denotes a mind that, though disappointed, forswears +compromise. But, if congenial to philosophy, it is apt to be dangerous to the +commonwealth. In a world where doing means marrying, and the commonwealth is +one of hearts and hands, the same peril attends the condition. +</p> + +<p> +And so we see our Eustacia—for at times she was not altogether +unlovable—arriving at that stage of enlightenment which feels that +nothing is worth while, and filling up the spare hours of her existence by +idealizing Wildeve for want of a better object. This was the sole reason of his +ascendency: she knew it herself. At moments her pride rebelled against her +passion for him, and she even had longed to be free. But there was only one +circumstance which could dislodge him, and that was the advent of a greater +man. +</p> + +<p> +For the rest, she suffered much from depression of spirits, and took slow walks +to recover them, in which she carried her grandfather’s telescope and her +grandmother’s hourglass—the latter because of a peculiar pleasure +she derived from watching a material representation of time’s gradual +glide away. She seldom schemed, but when she did scheme, her plans showed +rather the comprehensive strategy of a general than the small arts called +womanish, though she could utter oracles of Delphian ambiguity when she did not +choose to be direct. In heaven she will probably sit between the Héloïses and +the Cleopatras. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII.<br /> +Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody</h2> + +<p> +As soon as the sad little boy had withdrawn from the fire he clasped the money +tight in the palm of his hand, as if thereby to fortify his courage, and began +to run. There was really little danger in allowing a child to go home alone on +this part of Egdon Heath. The distance to the boy’s house was not more +than three-eighths of a mile, his father’s cottage, and one other a few +yards further on, forming part of the small hamlet of Mistover Knap: the third +and only remaining house was that of Captain Vye and Eustacia, which stood +quite away from the small cottages and was the loneliest of lonely houses on +these thinly populated slopes. +</p> + +<p> +He ran until he was out of breath, and then, becoming more courageous, walked +leisurely along, singing in an old voice a little song about a sailor-boy and a +fair one, and bright gold in store. In the middle of this the child +stopped—from a pit under the hill ahead of him shone a light, whence +proceeded a cloud of floating dust and a smacking noise. +</p> + +<p> +Only unusual sights and sounds frightened the boy. The shrivelled voice of the +heath did not alarm him, for that was familiar. The thornbushes which arose in +his path from time to time were less satisfactory, for they whistled gloomily, +and had a ghastly habit after dark of putting on the shapes of jumping madmen, +sprawling giants, and hideous cripples. Lights were not uncommon this evening, +but the nature of all of them was different from this. Discretion rather than +terror prompted the boy to turn back instead of passing the light, with a view +of asking Miss Eustacia Vye to let her servant accompany him home. +</p> + +<p> +When the boy had reascended to the top of the valley he found the fire to be +still burning on the bank, though lower than before. Beside it, instead of +Eustacia’s solitary form, he saw two persons, the second being a man. The +boy crept along under the bank to ascertain from the nature of the proceedings +if it would be prudent to interrupt so splendid a creature as Miss Eustacia on +his poor trivial account. +</p> + +<p> +After listening under the bank for some minutes to the talk he turned in a +perplexed and doubting manner and began to withdraw as silently as he had come. +That he did not, upon the whole, think it advisable to interrupt her +conversation with Wildeve, without being prepared to bear the whole weight of +her displeasure, was obvious. +</p> + +<p> +Here was a Scyllæo-Charybdean position for a poor boy. Pausing when again safe +from discovery, he finally decided to face the pit phenomenon as the lesser +evil. With a heavy sigh he retraced the slope, and followed the path he had +followed before. +</p> + +<p> +The light had gone, the rising dust had disappeared—he hoped for ever. He +marched resolutely along, and found nothing to alarm him till, coming within a +few yards of the sandpit, he heard a slight noise in front, which led him to +halt. The halt was but momentary, for the noise resolved itself into the steady +bites of two animals grazing. +</p> + +<p> +“Two he’th-croppers down here,” he said aloud. “I have +never known ’em come down so far afore.” +</p> + +<p> +The animals were in the direct line of his path, but that the child thought +little of; he had played round the fetlocks of horses from his infancy. On +coming nearer, however, the boy was somewhat surprised to find that the little +creatures did not run off, and that each wore a clog, to prevent his going +astray; this signified that they had been broken in. He could now see the +interior of the pit, which, being in the side of the hill, had a level +entrance. In the innermost corner the square outline of a van appeared, with +its back towards him. A light came from the interior, and threw a moving shadow +upon the vertical face of gravel at the further side of the pit into which the +vehicle faced. +</p> + +<p> +The child assumed that this was the cart of a gipsy, and his dread of those +wanderers reached but to that mild pitch which titillates rather than pains. +Only a few inches of mud wall kept him and his family from being gipsies +themselves. He skirted the gravel pit at a respectful distance, ascended the +slope, and came forward upon the brow, in order to look into the open door of +the van and see the original of the shadow. +</p> + +<p> +The picture alarmed the boy. By a little stove inside the van sat a figure red +from head to heels—the man who had been Thomasin’s friend. He was +darning a stocking, which was red like the rest of him. Moreover, as he darned +he smoked a pipe, the stem and bowl of which were red also. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment one of the heath-croppers feeding in the outer shadows was +audibly shaking off the clog attached to its foot. Aroused by the sound, the +reddleman laid down his stocking, lit a lantern which hung beside him, and came +out from the van. In sticking up the candle he lifted the lantern to his face, +and the light shone into the whites of his eyes and upon his ivory teeth, +which, in contrast with the red surrounding, lent him a startling aspect enough +to the gaze of a juvenile. The boy knew too well for his peace of mind upon +whose lair he had lighted. Uglier persons than gipsies were known to cross +Egdon at times, and a reddleman was one of them. +</p> + +<p> +“How I wish ’twas only a gipsy!” he murmured. +</p> + +<p> +The man was by this time coming back from the horses. In his fear of being seen +the boy rendered detection certain by nervous motion. The heather and peat +stratum overhung the brow of the pit in mats, hiding the actual verge. The boy +had stepped beyond the solid ground; the heather now gave way, and down he +rolled over the scarp of grey sand to the very foot of the man. +</p> + +<p> +The red man opened the lantern and turned it upon the figure of the prostrate +boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Who be ye?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Johnny Nunsuch, master!” +</p> + +<p> +“What were you doing up there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Watching me, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you watch me for?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I was coming home from Miss Vye’s bonfire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beest hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, you be—your hand is bleeding. Come under my tilt and let +me tie it up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please let me look for my sixpence.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you come by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Vye gied it to me for keeping up her bonfire.” +</p> + +<p> +The sixpence was found, and the man went to the van, the boy behind, almost +holding his breath. +</p> + +<p> +The man took a piece of rag from a satchel containing sewing materials, tore +off a strip, which, like everything else, was tinged red, and proceeded to bind +up the wound. +</p> + +<p> +“My eyes have got foggy-like—please may I sit down, master?” +said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, poor chap. ’Tis enough to make you feel fainty. Sit on +that bundle.” +</p> + +<p> +The man finished tying up the gash, and the boy said, “I think I’ll +go home now, master.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are rather afraid of me. Do you know what I be?” +</p> + +<p> +The child surveyed his vermilion figure up and down with much misgiving and +finally said, “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what?” +</p> + +<p> +“The reddleman!” he faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s what I be. Though there’s more than one. You +little children think there’s only one cuckoo, one fox, one giant, one +devil, and one reddleman, when there’s lots of us all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there? You won’t carry me off in your bags, will ye, master? +’Tis said that the reddleman will sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense. All that reddlemen do is sell reddle. You see all these bags +at the back of my cart? They are not full of little boys—only full of red +stuff.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was you born a reddleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I took to it. I should be as white as you if I were to give up the +trade—that is, I should be white in time—perhaps six months; not at +first, because ’tis grow’d into my skin and won’t wash out. +Now, you’ll never be afraid of a reddleman again, will ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, never. Willy Orchard said he seed a red ghost here t’other +day—perhaps that was you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was here t’other day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you making that dusty light I saw by now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I was beating out some bags. And have you had a good bonfire up +there? I saw the light. Why did Miss Vye want a bonfire so bad that she should +give you sixpence to keep it up?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I was tired, but she made me bide and keep up the +fire just the same, while she kept going up across Rainbarrow way.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how long did that last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Until a hopfrog jumped into the pond.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman suddenly ceased to talk idly. “A hopfrog?” he +inquired. “Hopfrogs don’t jump into ponds this time of year.” +</p> + +<p> +“They do, for I heard one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain-sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. She told me afore that I should hear’n; and so I did. They +say she’s clever and deep, and perhaps she charmed ’en to +come.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I came down here, and I was afeard, and I went back; but I +didn’t like to speak to her, because of the gentleman, and I came on here +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman—ah! What did she say to him, my man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Told him she supposed he had not married the other woman because he +liked his old sweetheart best; and things like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did the gentleman say to her, my sonny?” +</p> + +<p> +“He only said he did like her best, and how he was coming to see her +again under Rainbarrow o’ nights.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” cried the reddleman, slapping his hand against the side of +his van so that the whole fabric shook under the blow. “That’s the +secret o’t!” +</p> + +<p> +The little boy jumped clean from the stool. +</p> + +<p> +“My man, don’t you be afraid,” said the dealer in red, +suddenly becoming gentle. “I forgot you were here. That’s only a +curious way reddlemen have of going mad for a moment; but they don’t hurt +anybody. And what did the lady say then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t mind. Please, Master Reddleman, may I go home-along +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, to be sure you may. I’ll go a bit of ways with you.” +</p> + +<p> +He conducted the boy out of the gravel pit and into the path leading to his +mother’s cottage. When the little figure had vanished in the darkness the +reddleman returned, resumed his seat by the fire, and proceeded to darn again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>IX.<br /> +Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy</h2> + +<p> +Reddlemen of the old school are now but seldom seen. Since the introduction of +railways Wessex farmers have managed to do without these Mephistophelian +visitants, and the bright pigment so largely used by shepherds in preparing +sheep for the fair is obtained by other routes. Even those who yet survive are +losing the poetry of existence which characterized them when the pursuit of the +trade meant periodical journeys to the pit whence the material was dug, a +regular camping out from month to month, except in the depth of winter, a +peregrination among farms which could be counted by the hundred, and in spite +of this Arab existence the preservation of that respectability which is insured +by the never-failing production of a well-lined purse. +</p> + +<p> +Reddle spreads its lively hues over everything it lights on, and stamps +unmistakably, as with the mark of Cain, any person who has handled it half an +hour. +</p> + +<p> +A child’s first sight of a reddleman was an epoch in his life. That +blood-coloured figure was a sublimation of all the horrid dreams which had +afflicted the juvenile spirit since imagination began. “The reddleman is +coming for you!” had been the formulated threat of Wessex mothers for +many generations. He was successfully supplanted for a while, at the beginning +of the present century, by Buonaparte; but as process of time rendered the +latter personage stale and ineffective the older phrase resumed its early +prominence. And now the reddleman has in his turn followed Buonaparte to the +land of worn-out bogeys, and his place is filled by modern inventions. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman lived like a gipsy; but gipsies he scorned. He was about as +thriving as travelling basket and mat makers; but he had nothing to do with +them. He was more decently born and brought up than the cattledrovers who +passed and repassed him in his wanderings; but they merely nodded to him. His +stock was more valuable than that of pedlars; but they did not think so, and +passed his cart with eyes straight ahead. He was such an unnatural colour to +look at that the men of roundabouts and waxwork shows seemed gentlemen beside +him; but he considered them low company, and remained aloof. Among all these +squatters and folks of the road the reddleman continually found himself; yet he +was not of them. His occupation tended to isolate him, and isolated he was +mostly seen to be. +</p> + +<p> +It was sometimes suggested that reddlemen were criminals for whose misdeeds +other men wrongfully suffered—that in escaping the law they had not +escaped their own consciences, and had taken to the trade as a lifelong +penance. Else why should they have chosen it? In the present case such a +question would have been particularly apposite. The reddleman who had entered +Egdon that afternoon was an instance of the pleasing being wasted to form the +ground-work of the singular, when an ugly foundation would have done just as +well for that purpose. The one point that was forbidding about this reddleman +was his colour. Freed from that he would have been as agreeable a specimen of +rustic manhood as one would often see. A keen observer might have been inclined +to think—which was, indeed, partly the truth—that he had +relinquished his proper station in life for want of interest in it. Moreover, +after looking at him one would have hazarded the guess that good nature, and an +acuteness as extreme as it could be without verging on craft, formed the +framework of his character. +</p> + +<p> +While he darned the stocking his face became rigid with thought. Softer +expressions followed this, and then again recurred the tender sadness which had +sat upon him during his drive along the highway that afternoon. Presently his +needle stopped. He laid down the stocking, arose from his seat, and took a +leathern pouch from a hook in the corner of the van. This contained among other +articles a brown-paper packet, which, to judge from the hinge-like character of +its worn folds, seemed to have been carefully opened and closed a good many +times. He sat down on a three-legged milking stool that formed the only seat in +the van, and, examining his packet by the light of a candle, took thence an old +letter and spread it open. The writing had originally been traced on white +paper, but the letter had now assumed a pale red tinge from the accident of its +situation; and the black strokes of writing thereon looked like the twigs of a +winter hedge against a vermilion sunset. The letter bore a date some two years +previous to that time, and was signed “Thomasin Yeobright.” It ran +as follows:— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +D<small>EAR</small> D<small>IGGORY</small> V<small>ENN</small>,—The +question you put when you overtook me coming home from Pond-close gave me such +a surprise that I am afraid I did not make you exactly understand what I meant. +Of course, if my aunt had not met me I could have explained all then at once, +but as it was there was no chance. I have been quite uneasy since, as you know +I do not wish to pain you, yet I fear I shall be doing so now in contradicting +what I seemed to say then. I cannot, Diggory, marry you, or think of letting +you call me your sweetheart. I could not, indeed, Diggory. I hope you will not +much mind my saying this, and feel in a great pain. It makes me very sad when I +think it may, for I like you very much, and I always put you next to my cousin +Clym in my mind. There are so many reasons why we cannot be married that I can +hardly name them all in a letter. I did not in the least expect that you were +going to speak on such a thing when you followed me, because I had never +thought of you in the sense of a lover at all. You must not becall me for +laughing when you spoke; you mistook when you thought I laughed at you as a +foolish man. I laughed because the idea was so odd, and not at you at all. The +great reason with my own personal self for not letting you court me is, that I +do not feel the things a woman ought to feel who consents to walk with you with +the meaning of being your wife. It is not as you think, that I have another in +my mind, for I do not encourage anybody, and never have in my life. Another +reason is my aunt. She would not, I know, agree to it, even if I wished to have +you. She likes you very well, but she will want me to look a little higher than +a small dairy-farmer, and marry a professional man. I hope you will not set +your heart against me for writing plainly, but I felt you might try to see me +again, and it is better that we should not meet. I shall always think of you as +a good man, and be anxious for your well-doing. I send this by Jane +Orchard’s little maid,—And remain Diggory, your faithful friend, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +T<small>HOMASIN</small> Y<small>EOBRIGHT</small>. +</p> + +<p> +To Mr. V<small>ENN</small>, Dairy-farmer. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Since the arrival of that letter, on a certain autumn morning long ago, the +reddleman and Thomasin had not met till today. During the interval he had +shifted his position even further from hers than it had originally been, by +adopting the reddle trade; though he was really in very good circumstances +still. Indeed, seeing that his expenditure was only one-fourth of his income, +he might have been called a prosperous man. +</p> + +<p> +Rejected suitors take to roaming as naturally as unhived bees; and the business +to which he had cynically devoted himself was in many ways congenial to Venn. +But his wanderings, by mere stress of old emotions, had frequently taken an +Egdon direction, though he never intruded upon her who attracted him thither. +To be in Thomasin’s heath, and near her, yet unseen, was the one ewe-lamb +of pleasure left to him. +</p> + +<p> +Then came the incident of that day, and the reddleman, still loving her well, +was excited by this accidental service to her at a critical juncture to vow an +active devotion to her cause, instead of, as hitherto, sighing and holding +aloof. After what had happened it was impossible that he should not doubt the +honesty of Wildeve’s intentions. But her hope was apparently centred upon +him; and dismissing his regrets Venn determined to aid her to be happy in her +own chosen way. That this way was, of all others, the most distressing to +himself, was awkward enough; but the reddleman’s love was generous. +</p> + +<p> +His first active step in watching over Thomasin’s interests was taken +about seven o’clock the next evening and was dictated by the news which +he had learnt from the sad boy. That Eustacia was somehow the cause of +Wildeve’s carelessness in relation to the marriage had at once been +Venn’s conclusion on hearing of the secret meeting between them. It did +not occur to his mind that Eustacia’s love signal to Wildeve was the +tender effect upon the deserted beauty of the intelligence which her +grandfather had brought home. His instinct was to regard her as a conspirator +against rather than as an antecedent obstacle to Thomasin’s happiness. +</p> + +<p> +During the day he had been exceedingly anxious to learn the condition of +Thomasin, but he did not venture to intrude upon a threshold to which he was a +stranger, particularly at such an unpleasant moment as this. He had occupied +his time in moving with his ponies and load to a new point in the heath, +eastward to his previous station; and here he selected a nook with a careful +eye to shelter from wind and rain, which seemed to mean that his stay there was +to be a comparatively extended one. After this he returned on foot some part of +the way that he had come; and, it being now dark, he diverged to the left till +he stood behind a holly bush on the edge of a pit not twenty yards from +Rainbarrow. +</p> + +<p> +He watched for a meeting there, but he watched in vain. Nobody except himself +came near the spot that night. +</p> + +<p> +But the loss of his labour produced little effect upon the reddleman. He had +stood in the shoes of Tantalus, and seemed to look upon a certain mass of +disappointment as the natural preface to all realizations, without which +preface they would give cause for alarm. +</p> + +<p> +The same hour the next evening found him again at the same place; but Eustacia +and Wildeve, the expected trysters, did not appear. +</p> + +<p> +He pursued precisely the same course yet four nights longer, and without +success. But on the next, being the day-week of their previous meeting, he saw +a female shape floating along the ridge and the outline of a young man +ascending from the valley. They met in the little ditch encircling the +barrow—the original excavation from which it had been thrown up by the +ancient British people. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman, stung with suspicion of wrong to Thomasin, was aroused to +strategy in a moment. He instantly left the bush and crept forward on his hands +and knees. When he had got as close as he might safely venture without +discovery he found that, owing to a cross-wind, the conversation of the +trysting pair could not be overheard. +</p> + +<p> +Near him, as in divers places about the heath, were areas strewn with large +turves, which lay edgeways and upside down awaiting removal by Timothy Fairway, +previous to the winter weather. He took two of these as he lay, and dragged +them over him till one covered his head and shoulders, the other his back and +legs. The reddleman would now have been quite invisible, even by daylight; the +turves, standing upon him with the heather upwards, looked precisely as if they +were growing. He crept along again, and the turves upon his back crept with +him. Had he approached without any covering the chances are that he would not +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin is now staying at her aunt’s shut up in a bedroom, and +keeping out of everybody’s sight,” he said indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never wish to desert you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not thank you for that. I should hate it to be all smooth. Indeed, +I think I like you to desert me a little once now and then. Love is the +dismallest thing where the lover is quite honest. O, it is a shame to say so; +but it is true!” She indulged in a little laugh. “My low spirits +begin at the very idea. Don’t you offer me tame love, or away you +go!” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish Tamsie were not such a confoundedly good little woman,” +said Wildeve, “so that I could be faithful to you without injuring a +worthy person. It is I who am the sinner after all; I am not worth the little +finger of either of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must not sacrifice yourself to her from any sense of +justice,” replied Eustacia quickly. “If you do not love her it is +the most merciful thing in the long run to leave her as she is. That’s +always the best way. There, now I have been unwomanly, I suppose. When you have +left me I am always angry with myself for things that I have said to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve walked a pace or two among the heather without replying. The pause was +filled up by the intonation of a pollard thorn a little way to windward, the +breezes filtering through its unyielding twigs as through a strainer. It was as +if the night sang dirges with clenched teeth. +</p> + +<p> +She continued, half sorrowfully, “Since meeting you last, it has occurred +to me once or twice that perhaps it was not for love of me you did not marry +her. Tell me, Damon—I’ll try to bear it. Had I nothing whatever to +do with the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you press me to tell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I must know. I see I have been too ready to believe in my own +power.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the immediate reason was that the license would not do for the +place, and before I could get another she ran away. Up to that point you had +nothing to do with it. Since then her aunt has spoken to me in a tone which I +don’t at all like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes! I am nothing in it—I am nothing in it. You only trifle +with me. Heaven, what can I, Eustacia Vye, be made of to think so much of +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense; do not be so passionate.... Eustacia, how we roved among these +bushes last year, when the hot days had got cool, and the shades of the hills +kept us almost invisible in the hollows!” +</p> + +<p> +She remained in moody silence till she said, “Yes; and how I used to +laugh at you for daring to look up to me! But you have well made me suffer for +that since.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you served me cruelly enough until I thought I had found someone +fairer than you. A blessed find for me, Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you still think you found somebody fairer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. The scales are balanced so +nicely that a feather would turn them.” +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t you really care whether I meet you or whether I +don’t?” she said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“I care a little, but not enough to break my rest,” replied the +young man languidly. “No, all that’s past. I find there are two +flowers where I thought there was only one. Perhaps there are three, or four, +or any number as good as the first.... Mine is a curious fate. Who would have +thought that all this could happen to me?” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted with a suppressed fire of which either love or anger seemed an +equally possible issue, “Do you love me now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who can say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me; I will know it!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, and I do not,” said he mischievously. “That is, I have +my times and my seasons. One moment you are too tall, another moment you are +too do-nothing, another too melancholy, another too dark, another I don’t +know what, except—that you are not the whole world to me that you used to +be, my dear. But you are a pleasant lady to know and nice to meet, and I dare +say as sweet as ever—almost.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was silent, and she turned from him, till she said, in a voice of +suspended mightiness, “I am for a walk, and this is my way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can do worse than follow you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know you can’t do otherwise, for all your moods and +changes!” she answered defiantly. “Say what you will; try as you +may; keep away from me all that you can—you will never forget me. You +will love me all your life long. You would jump to marry me!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I would!” said Wildeve. “Such strange thoughts as +I’ve had from time to time, Eustacia; and they come to me this moment. +You hate the heath as much as ever; that I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” she murmured deeply. “’Tis my cross, my shame, +and will be my death!” +</p> + +<p> +“I abhor it too,” said he. “How mournfully the wind blows +round us now!” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. Its tone was indeed solemn and pervasive. Compound +utterances addressed themselves to their senses, and it was possible to view by +ear the features of the neighbourhood. Acoustic pictures were returned from the +darkened scenery; they could hear where the tracts of heather began and ended; +where the furze was growing stalky and tall; where it had been recently cut; in +what direction the fir-clump lay, and how near was the pit in which the hollies +grew; for these differing features had their voices no less than their shapes +and colours. +</p> + +<p> +“God, how lonely it is!” resumed Wildeve. “What are +picturesque ravines and mists to us who see nothing else? Why should we stay +here? Will you go with me to America? I have kindred in Wisconsin.” +</p> + +<p> +“That wants consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems impossible to do well here, unless one were a wild bird or a +landscape-painter. Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me time,” she softly said, taking his hand. “America is +so far away. Are you going to walk with me a little way?” +</p> + +<p> +As Eustacia uttered the latter words she retired from the base of the barrow, +and Wildeve followed her, so that the reddleman could hear no more. +</p> + +<p> +He lifted the turves and arose. Their black figures sank and disappeared from +against the sky. They were as two horns which the sluggish heath had put forth +from its crown, like a mollusc, and had now again drawn in. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman’s walk across the vale, and over into the next where his +cart lay, was not sprightly for a slim young fellow of twenty-four. His spirit +was perturbed to aching. The breezes that blew around his mouth in that walk +carried off upon them the accents of a commination. +</p> + +<p> +He entered the van, where there was a fire in a stove. Without lighting his +candle he sat down at once on the three-legged stool, and pondered on what he +had seen and heard touching that still-loved one of his. He uttered a sound +which was neither sigh nor sob, but was even more indicative than either of a +troubled mind. +</p> + +<p> +“My Tamsie,” he whispered heavily. “What can be done? Yes, I +will see that Eustacia Vye.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>X.<br /> +A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion</h2> + +<p> +The next morning, at the time when the height of the sun appeared very +insignificant from any part of the heath as compared with the altitude of +Rainbarrow, and when all the little hills in the lower levels were like an +archipelago in a fog-formed Ægean, the reddleman came from the brambled nook +which he had adopted as his quarters and ascended the slopes of Mistover Knap. +</p> + +<p> +Though these shaggy hills were apparently so solitary, several keen round eyes +were always ready on such a wintry morning as this to converge upon a +passer-by. Feathered species sojourned here in hiding which would have created +wonder if found elsewhere. A bustard haunted the spot, and not many years +before this five and twenty might have been seen in Egdon at one time. +Marsh-harriers looked up from the valley by Wildeve’s. A cream-coloured +courser had used to visit this hill, a bird so rare that not more than a dozen +have ever been seen in England; but a barbarian rested neither night nor day +till he had shot the African truant, and after that event cream-coloured +coursers thought fit to enter Egdon no more. +</p> + +<p> +A traveller who should walk and observe any of these visitants as Venn observed +them now could feel himself to be in direct communication with regions unknown +to man. Here in front of him was a wild mallard—just arrived from the +home of the north wind. The creature brought within him an amplitude of +Northern knowledge. Glacial catastrophes, snowstorm episodes, glittering +auroral effects, Polaris in the zenith, Franklin underfoot—the category +of his commonplaces was wonderful. But the bird, like many other philosophers, +seemed as he looked at the reddleman to think that a present moment of +comfortable reality was worth a decade of memories. +</p> + +<p> +Venn passed on through these towards the house of the isolated beauty who lived +up among them and despised them. The day was Sunday; but as going to church, +except to be married or buried, was exceptional at Egdon, this made little +difference. He had determined upon the bold stroke of asking for an interview +with Miss Vye—to attack her position as Thomasin’s rival either by +art or by storm, showing therein, somewhat too conspicuously, the want of +gallantry characteristic of a certain astute sort of men, from clowns to kings. +The great Frederick making war on the beautiful Archduchess, Napoleon refusing +terms to the beautiful Queen of Prussia, were not more dead to difference of +sex than the reddleman was, in his peculiar way, in planning the displacement +of Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +To call at the captain’s cottage was always more or less an undertaking +for the inferior inhabitants. Though occasionally chatty, his moods were +erratic, and nobody could be certain how he would behave at any particular +moment. Eustacia was reserved, and lived very much to herself. Except the +daughter of one of the cotters, who was their servant, and a lad who worked in +the garden and stable, scarcely anyone but themselves ever entered the house. +They were the only genteel people of the district except the Yeobrights, and +though far from rich, they did not feel that necessity for preserving a +friendly face towards every man, bird, and beast which influenced their poorer +neighbours. +</p> + +<p> +When the reddleman entered the garden the old man was looking through his glass +at the stain of blue sea in the distant landscape, the little anchors on his +buttons twinkling in the sun. He recognized Venn as his companion on the +highway, but made no remark on that circumstance, merely saying, “Ah, +reddleman—you here? Have a glass of grog?” +</p> + +<p> +Venn declined, on the plea of it being too early, and stated that his business +was with Miss Vye. The captain surveyed him from cap to waistcoat and from +waistcoat to leggings for a few moments, and finally asked him to go indoors. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Vye was not to be seen by anybody just then; and the reddleman waited in +the window-bench of the kitchen, his hands hanging across his divergent knees, +and his cap hanging from his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose the young lady is not up yet?” he presently said to the +servant. +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite yet. Folks never call upon ladies at this time of day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll step outside,” said Venn. “If she is willing +to see me, will she please send out word, and I’ll come in.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman left the house and loitered on the hill adjoining. A considerable +time elapsed, and no request for his presence was brought. He was beginning to +think that his scheme had failed, when he beheld the form of Eustacia herself +coming leisurely towards him. A sense of novelty in giving audience to that +singular figure had been sufficient to draw her forth. +</p> + +<p> +She seemed to feel, after a bare look at Diggory Venn, that the man had come on +a strange errand, and that he was not so mean as she had thought him; for her +close approach did not cause him to writhe uneasily, or shift his feet, or show +any of those little signs which escape an ingenuous rustic at the advent of the +uncommon in womankind. On his inquiring if he might have a conversation with +her she replied, “Yes, walk beside me,” and continued to move on. +</p> + +<p> +Before they had gone far it occurred to the perspicacious reddleman that he +would have acted more wisely by appearing less unimpressionable, and he +resolved to correct the error as soon as he could find opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +“I have made so bold, miss, as to step across and tell you some strange +news which has come to my ears about that man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! what man?” +</p> + +<p> +He jerked his elbow to the southeast—the direction of the Quiet Woman. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia turned quickly to him. “Do you mean Mr. Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there is trouble in a household on account of him, and I have come +to let you know of it, because I believe you might have power to drive it +away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I? What is the trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite a secret. It is that he may refuse to marry Thomasin +Yeobright after all.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia, though set inwardly pulsing by his words, was equal to her part in +such a drama as this. She replied coldly, “I do not wish to listen to +this, and you must not expect me to interfere.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, miss, you will hear one word?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot. I am not interested in the marriage, and even if I were I +could not compel Mr. Wildeve to do my bidding.” +</p> + +<p> +“As the only lady on the heath I think you might,” said Venn with +subtle indirectness. “This is how the case stands. Mr. Wildeve would +marry Thomasin at once, and make all matters smooth, if so be there were not +another woman in the case. This other woman is some person he has picked up +with, and meets on the heath occasionally, I believe. He will never marry her, +and yet through her he may never marry the woman who loves him dearly. Now, if +you, miss, who have so much sway over us menfolk, were to insist that he should +treat your young neighbour Tamsin with honourable kindness and give up the +other woman, he would perhaps do it, and save her a good deal of misery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my life!” said Eustacia, with a laugh which unclosed her lips +so that the sun shone into her mouth as into a tulip, and lent it a similar +scarlet fire. “You think too much of my influence over menfolk indeed, +reddleman. If I had such a power as you imagine I would go straight and use it +for the good of anybody who has been kind to me—which Thomasin Yeobright +has not particularly, to my knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can it be that you really don’t know of it—how much she had +always thought of you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never heard a word of it. Although we live only two miles apart I +have never been inside her aunt’s house in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +The superciliousness that lurked in her manner told Venn that thus far he had +utterly failed. He inwardly sighed and felt it necessary to unmask his second +argument. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, leaving that out of the question, ’tis in your power, I +assure you, Miss Vye, to do a great deal of good to another woman.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Your comeliness is law with Mr. Wildeve. It is law with all men who see +’ee. They say, ‘This well-favoured lady coming—what’s +her name? How handsome!’ Handsomer than Thomasin Yeobright,” the +reddleman persisted, saying to himself, “God forgive a rascal for +lying!” And she was handsomer, but the reddleman was far from thinking +so. There was a certain obscurity in Eustacia’s beauty, and Venn’s +eye was not trained. In her winter dress, as now, she was like the +tiger-beetle, which, when observed in dull situations, seems to be of the +quietest neutral colour, but under a full illumination blazes with dazzling +splendour. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia could not help replying, though conscious that she endangered her +dignity thereby. “Many women are lovelier than Thomasin,” she said, +“so not much attaches to that.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman suffered the wound and went on: “He is a man who notices +the looks of women, and you could twist him to your will like withywind, if you +only had the mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely what she cannot do who has been so much with him I cannot do +living up here away from him.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman wheeled and looked her in the face. “Miss Vye!” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say that—as if you doubted me?” She spoke +faintly, and her breathing was quick. “The idea of your speaking in that +tone to me!” she added, with a forced smile of hauteur. “What could +have been in your mind to lead you to speak like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Vye, why should you make believe that you don’t know this +man?—I know why, certainly. He is beneath you, and you are +ashamed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken. What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman had decided to play the card of truth. “I was at the +meeting by Rainbarrow last night and heard every word,” he said. +“The woman that stands between Wildeve and Thomasin is yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a disconcerting lift of the curtain, and the mortification of +Candaules’ wife glowed in her. The moment had arrived when her lip would +tremble in spite of herself, and when the gasp could no longer be kept down. +</p> + +<p> +“I am unwell,” she said hurriedly. “No—it is not +that—I am not in a humour to hear you further. Leave me, please.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must speak, Miss Vye, in spite of paining you. What I would put before +you is this. However it may come about—whether she is to blame, or +you—her case is without doubt worse than yours. Your giving up Mr. +Wildeve will be a real advantage to you, for how could you marry him? Now she +cannot get off so easily—everybody will blame her if she loses him. Then +I ask you—not because her right is best, but because her situation is +worst—to give him up to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—I won’t, I won’t!” she said impetuously, +quite forgetful of her previous manner towards the reddleman as an underling. +“Nobody has ever been served so! It was going on well—I will not be +beaten down—by an inferior woman like her. It is very well for you to +come and plead for her, but is she not herself the cause of all her own +trouble? Am I not to show favour to any person I may choose without asking +permission of a parcel of cottagers? She has come between me and my +inclination, and now that she finds herself rightly punished she gets you to +plead for her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” said Venn earnestly, “she knows nothing whatever +about it. It is only I who ask you to give him up. It will be better for her +and you both. People will say bad things if they find out that a lady secretly +meets a man who has ill-used another woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have <i>not</i> injured her—he was mine before he was hers! He +came back—because—because he liked me best!” she said wildly. +“But I lose all self-respect in talking to you. What am I giving way +to!” +</p> + +<p> +“I can keep secrets,” said Venn gently. “You need not fear. I +am the only man who knows of your meetings with him. There is but one thing +more to speak of, and then I will be gone. I heard you say to him that you +hated living here—that Egdon Heath was a jail to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did say so. There is a sort of beauty in the scenery, I know; but it +is a jail to me. The man you mention does not save me from that feeling, though +he lives here. I should have cared nothing for him had there been a better +person near.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman looked hopeful; after these words from her his third attempt +seemed promising. “As we have now opened our minds a bit, miss,” he +said, “I’ll tell you what I have got to propose. Since I have taken +to the reddle trade I travel a good deal, as you know.” +</p> + +<p> +She inclined her head, and swept round so that her eyes rested in the misty +vale beneath them. +</p> + +<p> +“And in my travels I go near Budmouth. Now Budmouth is a wonderful +place—wonderful—a great salt sheening sea bending into the land +like a bow—thousands of gentlepeople walking up and down—bands of +music playing—officers by sea and officers by land walking among the +rest—out of every ten folks you meet nine of ’em in love.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” she said disdainfully. “I know Budmouth better +than you. I was born there. My father came to be a military musician there from +abroad. Ah, my soul, Budmouth! I wish I was there now.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman was surprised to see how a slow fire could blaze on occasion. +“If you were, miss,” he replied, “in a week’s time you +would think no more of Wildeve than of one of those he’th-croppers that +we see yond. Now, I could get you there.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” said Eustacia, with intense curiosity in her heavy eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“My uncle has been for five and twenty years the trusty man of a rich +widow-lady who has a beautiful house facing the sea. This lady has become old +and lame, and she wants a young company-keeper to read and sing to her, but +can’t get one to her mind to save her life, though she’ve +advertised in the papers, and tried half a dozen. She would jump to get you, +and Uncle would make it all easy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have to work, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not real work—you’d have a little to do, such as reading +and that. You would not be wanted till New Year’s Day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it meant work,” she said, drooping to languor again. +</p> + +<p> +“I confess there would be a trifle to do in the way of amusing her; but +though idle people might call it work, working people would call it play. Think +of the company and the life you’d lead, miss; the gaiety you’d see, +and the gentleman you’d marry. My uncle is to inquire for a trustworthy +young lady from the country, as she don’t like town girls.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is to wear myself out to please her! and I won’t go. O, if I +could live in a gay town as a lady should, and go my own ways, and do my own +doings, I’d give the wrinkled half of my life! Yes, reddleman, that would +I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Help me to get Thomasin happy, miss, and the chance shall be +yours,” urged her companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Chance—’tis no chance,” she said proudly. “What +can a poor man like you offer me, indeed?—I am going indoors. I have +nothing more to say. Don’t your horses want feeding, or your reddlebags +want mending, or don’t you want to find buyers for your goods, that you +stay idling here like this?” +</p> + +<p> +Venn spoke not another word. With his hands behind him he turned away, that she +might not see the hopeless disappointment in his face. The mental clearness and +power he had found in this lonely girl had indeed filled his manner with +misgiving even from the first few minutes of close quarters with her. Her youth +and situation had led him to expect a simplicity quite at the beck of his +method. But a system of inducement which might have carried weaker country +lasses along with it had merely repelled Eustacia. As a rule, the word Budmouth +meant fascination on Egdon. That Royal port and watering place, if truly +mirrored in the minds of the heathfolk, must have combined, in a charming and +indescribable manner a Carthaginian bustle of building with Tarentine +luxuriousness and Baian health and beauty. Eustacia felt little less +extravagantly about the place; but she would not sink her independence to get +there. +</p> + +<p> +When Diggory Venn had gone quite away, Eustacia walked to the bank and looked +down the wild and picturesque vale towards the sun, which was also in the +direction of Wildeve’s. The mist had now so far collapsed that the tips +of the trees and bushes around his house could just be discerned, as if boring +upwards through a vast white cobweb which cloaked them from the day. There was +no doubt that her mind was inclined thitherward; indefinitely, +fancifully—twining and untwining about him as the single object within +her horizon on which dreams might crystallize. The man who had begun by being +merely her amusement, and would never have been more than her hobby but for his +skill in deserting her at the right moments, was now again her desire. +Cessation in his love-making had revivified her love. Such feeling as Eustacia +had idly given to Wildeve was dammed into a flood by Thomasin. She had used to +tease Wildeve, but that was before another had favoured him. Often a drop of +irony into an indifferent situation renders the whole piquant. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never give him up—never!” she said impetuously. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman’s hint that rumour might show her to disadvantage had no +permanent terror for Eustacia. She was as unconcerned at that contingency as a +goddess at a lack of linen. This did not originate in inherent shamelessness, +but in her living too far from the world to feel the impact of public opinion. +Zenobia in the desert could hardly have cared what was said about her at Rome. +As far as social ethics were concerned Eustacia approached the savage state, +though in emotion she was all the while an epicure. She had advanced to the +secret recesses of sensuousness, yet had hardly crossed the threshold of +conventionality. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>XI.<br /> +The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman</h2> + +<p> +The reddleman had left Eustacia’s presence with desponding views on +Thomasin’s future happiness; but he was awakened to the fact that one +other channel remained untried by seeing, as he followed the way to his van, +the form of Mrs. Yeobright slowly walking towards the Quiet Woman. He went +across to her; and could almost perceive in her anxious face that this journey +of hers to Wildeve was undertaken with the same object as his own to Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +She did not conceal the fact. “Then,” said the reddleman, +“you may as well leave it alone, Mrs. Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“I half think so myself,” she said. “But nothing else remains +to be done besides pressing the question upon him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to say a word first,” said Venn firmly. “Mr. +Wildeve is not the only man who has asked Thomasin to marry him; and why should +not another have a chance? Mrs. Yeobright, I should be glad to marry your niece +and would have done it any time these last two years. There, now it is out, and +I have never told anybody before but herself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright was not demonstrative, but her eyes involuntarily glanced +towards his singular though shapely figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Looks are not everything,” said the reddleman, noticing the +glance. “There’s many a calling that don’t bring in so much +as mine, if it comes to money; and perhaps I am not so much worse off than +Wildeve. There is nobody so poor as these professional fellows who have failed; +and if you shouldn’t like my redness—well, I am not red by birth, +you know; I only took to this business for a freak; and I might turn my hand to +something else in good time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am much obliged to you for your interest in my niece; but I fear there +would be objections. More than that, she is devoted to this man.” +</p> + +<p> +“True; or I shouldn’t have done what I have this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Otherwise there would be no pain in the case, and you would not see me +going to his house now. What was Thomasin’s answer when you told her of +your feelings?” +</p> + +<p> +“She wrote that you would object to me; and other things.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was in a measure right. You must not take this unkindly—I +merely state it as a truth. You have been good to her, and we do not forget it. +But as she was unwilling on her own account to be your wife, that settles the +point without my wishes being concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But there is a difference between then and now, ma’am. She is +distressed now, and I have thought that if you were to talk to her about me, +and think favourably of me yourself, there might be a chance of winning her +round, and getting her quite independent of this Wildeve’s backward and +forward play, and his not knowing whether he’ll have her or no.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright shook her head. “Thomasin thinks, and I think with her, +that she ought to be Wildeve’s wife, if she means to appear before the +world without a slur upon her name. If they marry soon, everybody will believe +that an accident did really prevent the wedding. If not, it may cast a shade +upon her character—at any rate make her ridiculous. In short, if it is +anyhow possible they must marry now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that till half an hour ago. But, after all, why should her +going off with him to Anglebury for a few hours do her any harm? Anybody who +knows how pure she is will feel any such thought to be quite unjust. I have +been trying this morning to help on this marriage with Wildeve—yes, I, +ma’am—in the belief that I ought to do it, because she was so +wrapped up in him. But I much question if I was right, after all. However, +nothing came of it. And now I offer myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright appeared disinclined to enter further into the question. +“I fear I must go on,” she said. “I do not see that anything +else can be done.” +</p> + +<p> +And she went on. But though this conversation did not divert Thomasin’s +aunt from her purposed interview with Wildeve, it made a considerable +difference in her mode of conducting that interview. She thanked God for the +weapon which the reddleman had put into her hands. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve was at home when she reached the inn. He showed her silently into the +parlour, and closed the door. Mrs. Yeobright began— +</p> + +<p> +“I have thought it my duty to call today. A new proposal has been made to +me, which has rather astonished me. It will affect Thomasin greatly; and I have +decided that it should at least be mentioned to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes? What is it?” he said civilly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is, of course, in reference to her future. You may not be aware that +another man has shown himself anxious to marry Thomasin. Now, though I have not +encouraged him yet, I cannot conscientiously refuse him a chance any longer. I +don’t wish to be short with you; but I must be fair to him and to +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the man?” said Wildeve with surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“One who has been in love with her longer than she has with you. He +proposed to her two years ago. At that time she refused him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has seen her lately, and has asked me for permission to pay his +addresses to her. She may not refuse him twice.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is his name?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright declined to say. “He is a man Thomasin likes,” she +added, “and one whose constancy she respects at least. It seems to me +that what she refused then she would be glad to get now. She is much annoyed at +her awkward position.” +</p> + +<p> +“She never once told me of this old lover.” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentlest women are not such fools as to show <i>every</i> +card.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if she wants him I suppose she must have him.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is easy enough to say that; but you don’t see the difficulty. +He wants her much more than she wants him; and before I can encourage anything +of the sort I must have a clear understanding from you that you will not +interfere to injure an arrangement which I promote in the belief that it is for +the best. Suppose, when they are engaged, and everything is smoothly arranged +for their marriage, that you should step between them and renew your suit? You +might not win her back, but you might cause much unhappiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I should do no such thing,” said Wildeve “But they +are not engaged yet. How do you know that Thomasin would accept him?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a question I have carefully put to myself; and upon the +whole the probabilities are in favour of her accepting him in time. I flatter +myself that I have some influence over her. She is pliable, and I can be strong +in my recommendations of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in your disparagement of me at the same time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may depend upon my not praising you,” she said drily. +“And if this seems like manœuvring, you must remember that her position +is peculiar, and that she has been hardly used. I shall also be helped in +making the match by her own desire to escape from the humiliation of her +present state; and a woman’s pride in these cases will lead her a very +great way. A little managing may be required to bring her round; but I am equal +to that, provided that you agree to the one thing indispensable; that is, to +make a distinct declaration that she is to think no more of you as a possible +husband. That will pique her into accepting him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hardly say that just now, Mrs. Yeobright. It is so sudden.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so my whole plan is interfered with! It is very inconvenient that +you refuse to help my family even to the small extent of saying distinctly you +will have nothing to do with us.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve reflected uncomfortably. “I confess I was not prepared for +this,” he said. “Of course I’ll give her up if you wish, if +it is necessary. But I thought I might be her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have heard that before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mrs. Yeobright, don’t let us disagree. Give me a fair time. I +don’t want to stand in the way of any better chance she may have; only I +wish you had let me know earlier. I will write to you or call in a day or two. +Will that suffice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied, “provided you promise not to communicate +with Thomasin without my knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise that,” he said. And the interview then terminated, Mrs. +Yeobright returning homeward as she had come. +</p> + +<p> +By far the greatest effect of her simple strategy on that day was, as often +happens, in a quarter quite outside her view when arranging it. In the first +place, her visit sent Wildeve the same evening after dark to Eustacia’s +house at Mistover. +</p> + +<p> +At this hour the lonely dwelling was closely blinded and shuttered from the +chill and darkness without. Wildeve’s clandestine plan with her was to +take a little gravel in his hand and hold it to the crevice at the top of the +window shutter, which was on the outside, so that it should fall with a gentle +rustle, resembling that of a mouse, between shutter and glass. This precaution +in attracting her attention was to avoid arousing the suspicions of her +grandfather. +</p> + +<p> +The soft words, “I hear; wait for me,” in Eustacia’s voice +from within told him that she was alone. +</p> + +<p> +He waited in his customary manner by walking round the enclosure and idling by +the pool, for Wildeve was never asked into the house by his proud though +condescending mistress. She showed no sign of coming out in a hurry. The time +wore on, and he began to grow impatient. In the course of twenty minutes she +appeared from round the corner, and advanced as if merely taking an airing. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not have kept me so long had you known what I come +about,” he said with bitterness. “Still, you are worth waiting +for.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has happened?” said Eustacia. “I did not know you were +in trouble. I too am gloomy enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not in trouble,” said he. “It is merely that affairs +have come to a head, and I must take a clear course.” +</p> + +<p> +“What course is that?” she asked with attentive interest. +</p> + +<p> +“And can you forget so soon what I proposed to you the other night? Why, +take you from this place, and carry you away with me abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not forgotten. But why have you come so unexpectedly to repeat +the question, when you only promised to come next Saturday? I thought I was to +have plenty of time to consider.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but the situation is different now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to explain, for I may pain you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must know the reason of this hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is simply my ardour, dear Eustacia. Everything is smooth now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why are you so ruffled?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not aware of it. All is as it should be. Mrs. Yeobright—but +she is nothing to us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I knew she had something to do with it! Come, I don’t like +reserve.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—she has nothing. She only says she wishes me to give up +Thomasin because another man is anxious to marry her. The woman, now she no +longer needs me, actually shows off!” Wildeve’s vexation has +escaped him in spite of himself. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was silent a long while. “You are in the awkward position of an +official who is no longer wanted,” she said in a changed tone. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems so. But I have not yet seen Thomasin.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that irritates you. Don’t deny it, Damon. You are actually +nettled by this slight from an unexpected quarter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you come to get me because you cannot get her. This is certainly a +new position altogether. I am to be a stop-gap.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please remember that I proposed the same thing the other day.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia again remained in a sort of stupefied silence. What curious feeling +was this coming over her? Was it really possible that her interest in Wildeve +had been so entirely the result of antagonism that the glory and the dream +departed from the man with the first sound that he was no longer coveted by her +rival? She was, then, secure of him at last. Thomasin no longer required him. +What a humiliating victory! He loved her best, she thought; and yet—dared +she to murmur such treacherous criticism ever so softly?—what was the man +worth whom a woman inferior to herself did not value? The sentiment which lurks +more or less in all animate nature—that of not desiring the undesired of +others—was lively as a passion in the supersubtle, epicurean heart of +Eustacia. Her social superiority over him, which hitherto had scarcely ever +impressed her, became unpleasantly insistent, and for the first time she felt +that she had stooped in loving him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, darling, you agree?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“If it could be London, or even Budmouth, instead of America,” she +murmured languidly. “Well, I will think. It is too great a thing for me +to decide offhand. I wish I hated the heath less—or loved you +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can be painfully frank. You loved me a month ago warmly enough to go +anywhere with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you loved Thomasin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, perhaps that was where the reason lay,” he returned, with +almost a sneer. “I don’t hate her now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. The only thing is that you can no longer get her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come—no taunts, Eustacia, or we shall quarrel. If you don’t +agree to go with me, and agree shortly, I shall go by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or try Thomasin again. Damon, how strange it seems that you could have +married her or me indifferently, and only have come to me because I +am—cheapest! Yes, yes—it is true. There was a time when I should +have exclaimed against a man of that sort, and been quite wild; but it is all +past now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you go, dearest? Come secretly with me to Bristol, marry me, and +turn our backs upon this dog-hole of England for ever? Say Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to get away from here at almost any cost,” she said with +weariness, “but I don’t like to go with you. Give me more time to +decide.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have already,” said Wildeve. “Well, I give you one more +week.” +</p> + +<p> +“A little longer, so that I may tell you decisively. I have to consider +so many things. Fancy Thomasin being anxious to get rid of you! I cannot forget +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that. Say Monday week. I will be here precisely at this +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let it be at Rainbarrow,” said she. “This is too near home; +my grandfather may be walking out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, dear. On Monday week at this time I will be at the Barrow. +Till then good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye. No, no, you must not touch me now. Shaking hands is enough +till I have made up my mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia watched his shadowy form till it had disappeared. She placed her hand +to her forehead and breathed heavily; and then her rich, romantic lips parted +under that homely impulse—a yawn. She was immediately angry at having +betrayed even to herself the possible evanescence of her passion for him. She +could not admit at once that she might have overestimated Wildeve, for to +perceive his mediocrity now was to admit her own great folly heretofore. And +the discovery that she was the owner of a disposition so purely that of the dog +in the manger had something in it which at first made her ashamed. +</p> + +<p> +The fruit of Mrs. Yeobright’s diplomacy was indeed remarkable, though not +as yet of the kind she had anticipated. It had appreciably influenced Wildeve, +but it was influencing Eustacia far more. Her lover was no longer to her an +exciting man whom many women strove for, and herself could only retain by +striving with them. He was a superfluity. +</p> + +<p> +She went indoors in that peculiar state of misery which is not exactly grief, +and which especially attends the dawnings of reason in the latter days of an +ill-judged, transient love. To be conscious that the end of the dream is +approaching, and yet has not absolutely come, is one of the most wearisome as +well as the most curious stages along the course between the beginning of a +passion and its end. +</p> + +<p> +Her grandfather had returned, and was busily engaged in pouring some gallons of +newly arrived rum into the square bottles of his square cellaret. Whenever +these home supplies were exhausted he would go to the Quiet Woman, and, +standing with his back to the fire, grog in hand, tell remarkable stories of +how he had lived seven years under the waterline of his ship, and other naval +wonders, to the natives, who hoped too earnestly for a treat of ale from the +teller to exhibit any doubts of his truth. +</p> + +<p> +He had been there this evening. “I suppose you have heard the Egdon news, +Eustacia?” he said, without looking up from the bottles. “The men +have been talking about it at the Woman as if it were of national +importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard none,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Young Clym Yeobright, as they call him, is coming home next week to +spend Christmas with his mother. He is a fine fellow by this time, it seems. I +suppose you remember him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw him in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, true; he left before you came here. I well remember him as a +promising boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where has he been living all these years?” +</p> + +<p> +“In that rookery of pomp and vanity, Paris, I believe.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book02"></a>BOOK SECOND—THE ARRIVAL</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>I.<br /> +Tidings of the Comer</h2> + +<p> +On the fine days at this time of the year, and earlier, certain ephemeral +operations were apt to disturb, in their trifling way, the majestic calm of +Egdon Heath. They were activities which, beside those of a town, a village, or +even a farm, would have appeared as the ferment of stagnation merely, a +creeping of the flesh of somnolence. But here, away from comparisons, shut in +by the stable hills, among which mere walking had the novelty of pageantry, and +where any man could imagine himself to be Adam without the least difficulty, +they attracted the attention of every bird within eyeshot, every reptile not +yet asleep, and set the surrounding rabbits curiously watching from hillocks at +a safe distance. +</p> + +<p> +The performance was that of bringing together and building into a stack the +furze faggots which Humphrey had been cutting for the captain’s use +during the foregoing fine days. The stack was at the end of the dwelling, and +the men engaged in building it were Humphrey and Sam, the old man looking on. +</p> + +<p> +It was a fine and quiet afternoon, about three o’clock; but the winter +solstice having stealthily come on, the lowness of the sun caused the hour to +seem later than it actually was, there being little here to remind an +inhabitant that he must unlearn his summer experience of the sky as a dial. In +the course of many days and weeks sunrise had advanced its quarters from +northeast to southeast, sunset had receded from northwest to southwest; but +Egdon had hardly heeded the change. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was indoors in the dining-room, which was really more like a kitchen, +having a stone floor and a gaping chimney-corner. The air was still, and while +she lingered a moment here alone sounds of voices in conversation came to her +ears directly down the chimney. She entered the recess, and, listening, looked +up the old irregular shaft, with its cavernous hollows, where the smoke +blundered about on its way to the square bit of sky at the top, from which the +daylight struck down with a pallid glare upon the tatters of soot draping the +flue as seaweed drapes a rocky fissure. +</p> + +<p> +She remembered: the furze-stack was not far from the chimney, and the voices +were those of the workers. +</p> + +<p> +Her grandfather joined in the conversation. “That lad ought never to have +left home. His father’s occupation would have suited him best, and the +boy should have followed on. I don’t believe in these new moves in +families. My father was a sailor, so was I, and so should my son have been if I +had had one.” +</p> + +<p> +“The place he’s been living at is Paris,” said Humphrey, +“and they tell me ’tis where the king’s head was cut off +years ago. My poor mother used to tell me about that business. +‘Hummy,’ she used to say, ‘I was a young maid then, and as I +was at home ironing Mother’s caps one afternoon the parson came in and +said, “They’ve cut the king’s head off, Jane; and what +’twill be next God knows.’” +</p> + +<p> +“A good many of us knew as well as He before long,” said the +captain, chuckling. “I lived seven years under water on account of it in +my boyhood—in that damned surgery of the Triumph, seeing men brought down +to the cockpit with their legs and arms blown to Jericho.... And so the young +man has settled in Paris. Manager to a diamond merchant, or some such thing, is +he not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, that’s it. ’Tis a blazing great business that he +belongs to, so I’ve heard his mother say—like a king’s +palace, as far as diments go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can well mind when he left home,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a good thing for the feller,” said Humphrey. “A +sight of times better to be selling diments than nobbling about here.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must cost a good few shillings to deal at such a place.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good few indeed, my man,” replied the captain. “Yes, you +may make away with a deal of money and be neither drunkard nor glutton.” +</p> + +<p> +“They say, too, that Clym Yeobright is become a real perusing man, with +the strangest notions about things. There, that’s because he went to +school early, such as the school was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange notions, has he?” said the old man. “Ah, +there’s too much of that sending to school in these days! It only does +harm. Every gatepost and barn’s door you come to is sure to have some bad +word or other chalked upon it by the young rascals—a woman can hardly +pass for shame sometimes. If they’d never been taught how to write they +wouldn’t have been able to scribble such villainy. Their fathers +couldn’t do it, and the country was all the better for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I should think, Cap’n, that Miss Eustacia had about as much +in her head that comes from books as anybody about here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps if Miss Eustacia, too, had less romantic nonsense in her head it +would be better for her,” said the captain shortly; after which he walked +away. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Sam,” observed Humphrey when the old man was gone, +“she and Clym Yeobright would make a very pretty pigeon-pair—hey? +If they wouldn’t I’ll be dazed! Both of one mind about niceties for +certain, and learned in print, and always thinking about high +doctrine—there couldn’t be a better couple if they were made +o’ purpose. Clym’s family is as good as hers. His father was a +farmer, that’s true; but his mother was a sort of lady, as we know. +Nothing would please me better than to see them two man and wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“They’d look very natty, arm-in-crook together, and their best +clothes on, whether or no, if he’s at all the well-favoured fellow he +used to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would, Humphrey. Well, I should like to see the chap terrible much +after so many years. If I knew for certain when he was coming I’d stroll +out three or four miles to meet him and help carry anything for’n; though +I suppose he’s altered from the boy he was. They say he can talk French +as fast as a maid can eat blackberries; and if so, depend upon it we who have +stayed at home shall seem no more than scroff in his eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Coming across the water to Budmouth by steamer, isn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but how he’s coming from Budmouth I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a bad trouble about his cousin Thomasin. I wonder such a +nice-notioned fellow as Clym likes to come home into it. What a nunnywatch we +were in, to be sure, when we heard they weren’t married at all, after +singing to ’em as man and wife that night! Be dazed if I should like a +relation of mine to have been made such a fool of by a man. It makes the family +look small.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Poor maid, her heart has ached enough about it. Her health is +suffering from it, I hear, for she will bide entirely indoors. We never see her +out now, scampering over the furze with a face as red as a rose, as she used to +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard she wouldn’t have Wildeve now if he asked +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have? ’Tis news to me.” +</p> + +<p> +While the furze-gatherers had desultorily conversed thus Eustacia’s face +gradually bent to the hearth in a profound reverie, her toe unconsciously +tapping the dry turf which lay burning at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +The subject of their discourse had been keenly interesting to her. A young and +clever man was coming into that lonely heath from, of all contrasting places in +the world, Paris. It was like a man coming from heaven. More singular still, +the heathmen had instinctively coupled her and this man together in their minds +as a pair born for each other. +</p> + +<p> +That five minutes of overhearing furnished Eustacia with visions enough to fill +the whole blank afternoon. Such sudden alternations from mental vacuity do +sometimes occur thus quietly. She could never have believed in the morning that +her colourless inner world would before night become as animated as water under +a microscope, and that without the arrival of a single visitor. The words of +Sam and Humphrey on the harmony between the unknown and herself had on her mind +the effect of the invading Bard’s prelude in the Castle of Indolence, at +which myriads of imprisoned shapes arose where had previously appeared the +stillness of a void. +</p> + +<p> +Involved in these imaginings she knew nothing of time. When she became +conscious of externals it was dusk. The furze-rick was finished; the men had +gone home. Eustacia went upstairs, thinking that she would take a walk at this +her usual time; and she determined that her walk should be in the direction of +Blooms-End, the birthplace of young Yeobright and the present home of his +mother. She had no reason for walking elsewhere, and why should she not go that +way? The scene of the daydream is sufficient for a pilgrimage at nineteen. To +look at the palings before the Yeobrights’ house had the dignity of a +necessary performance. Strange that such a piece of idling should have seemed +an important errand. +</p> + +<p> +She put on her bonnet, and, leaving the house, descended the hill on the side +towards Blooms-End, where she walked slowly along the valley for a distance of +a mile and a half. This brought her to a spot in which the green bottom of the +dale began to widen, the furze bushes to recede yet further from the path on +each side, till they were diminished to an isolated one here and there by the +increasing fertility of the soil. Beyond the irregular carpet of grass was a +row of white palings, which marked the verge of the heath in this latitude. +They showed upon the dusky scene that they bordered as distinctly as white lace +on velvet. Behind the white palings was a little garden; behind the garden an +old, irregular, thatched house, facing the heath, and commanding a full view of +the valley. This was the obscure, removed spot to which was about to return a +man whose latter life had been passed in the French capital—the centre +and vortex of the fashionable world. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>II.<br /> +The People at Blooms-End Make Ready</h2> + +<p> +All that afternoon the expected arrival of the subject of Eustacia’s +ruminations created a bustle of preparation at Blooms-End. Thomasin had been +persuaded by her aunt, and by an instinctive impulse of loyalty towards her +cousin Clym, to bestir herself on his account with an alacrity unusual in her +during these most sorrowful days of her life. At the time that Eustacia was +listening to the rick-makers’ conversation on Clym’s return, +Thomasin was climbing into a loft over her aunt’s fuelhouse, where the +store-apples were kept, to search out the best and largest of them for the +coming holiday-time. +</p> + +<p> +The loft was lighted by a semicircular hole, through which the pigeons crept to +their lodgings in the same high quarters of the premises; and from this hole +the sun shone in a bright yellow patch upon the figure of the maiden as she +knelt and plunged her naked arms into the soft brown fern, which, from its +abundance, was used on Egdon in packing away stores of all kinds. The pigeons +were flying about her head with the greatest unconcern, and the face of her +aunt was just visible above the floor of the loft, lit by a few stray motes of +light, as she stood halfway up the ladder, looking at a spot into which she was +not climber enough to venture. +</p> + +<p> +“Now a few russets, Tamsin. He used to like them almost as well as +ribstones.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin turned and rolled aside the fern from another nook, where more mellow +fruit greeted her with its ripe smell. Before picking them out she stopped a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Clym, I wonder how your face looks now?” she said, gazing +abstractedly at the pigeon-hole, which admitted the sunlight so directly upon +her brown hair and transparent tissues that it almost seemed to shine through +her. +</p> + +<p> +“If he could have been dear to you in another way,” said Mrs. +Yeobright from the ladder, “this might have been a happy meeting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any use in saying what can do no good, Aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said her aunt, with some warmth. “To thoroughly fill +the air with the past misfortune, so that other girls may take warning and keep +clear of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin lowered her face to the apples again. “I am a warning to others, +just as thieves and drunkards and gamblers are,” she said in a low voice. +“What a class to belong to! Do I really belong to them? ’Tis +absurd! Yet why, Aunt, does everybody keep on making me think that I do, by the +way they behave towards me? Why don’t people judge me by my acts? Now, +look at me as I kneel here, picking up these apples—do I look like a lost +woman?... I wish all good women were as good as I!” she added vehemently. +</p> + +<p> +“Strangers don’t see you as I do,” said Mrs. Yeobright; +“they judge from false report. Well, it is a silly job, and I am partly +to blame.” +</p> + +<p> +“How quickly a rash thing can be done!” replied the girl. Her lips +were quivering, and tears so crowded themselves into her eyes that she could +hardly distinguish apples from fern as she continued industriously searching to +hide her weakness. +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as you have finished getting the apples,” her aunt said, +descending the ladder, “come down, and we’ll go for the holly. +There is nobody on the heath this afternoon, and you need not fear being stared +at. We must get some berries, or Clym will never believe in our +preparations.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin came down when the apples were collected, and together they went +through the white palings to the heath beyond. The open hills were airy and +clear, and the remote atmosphere appeared, as it often appears on a fine winter +day, in distinct planes of illumination independently toned, the rays which lit +the nearer tracts of landscape streaming visibly across those further off; a +stratum of ensaffroned light was imposed on a stratum of deep blue, and behind +these lay still remoter scenes wrapped in frigid grey. +</p> + +<p> +They reached the place where the hollies grew, which was in a conical pit, so +that the tops of the trees were not much above the general level of the ground. +Thomasin stepped up into a fork of one of the bushes, as she had done under +happier circumstances on many similar occasions, and with a small chopper that +they had brought she began to lop off the heavily berried boughs. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t scratch your face,” said her aunt, who stood at the +edge of the pit, regarding the girl as she held on amid the glistening green +and scarlet masses of the tree. “Will you walk with me to meet him this +evening?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to. Else it would seem as if I had forgotten him,” +said Thomasin, tossing out a bough. “Not that that would matter much; I +belong to one man; nothing can alter that. And that man I must marry, for my +pride’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid—” began Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you think, ‘That weak girl—how is she going to get a man +to marry her when she chooses?’ But let me tell you one thing, Aunt: Mr. +Wildeve is not a profligate man, any more than I am an improper woman. He has +an unfortunate manner, and doesn’t try to make people like him if they +don’t wish to do it of their own accord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly, fixing her eye upon her +niece, “do you think you deceive me in your defence of Mr. +Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have long had a suspicion that your love for him has changed its +colour since you have found him not to be the saint you thought him, and that +you act a part to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He wished to marry me, and I wish to marry him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I put it to you: would you at this present moment agree to be his +wife if that had not happened to entangle you with him?” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin looked into the tree and appeared much disturbed. “Aunt,” +she said presently, “I have, I think, a right to refuse to answer that +question.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you have.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may think what you choose. I have never implied to you by word or +deed that I have grown to think otherwise of him, and I never will. And I shall +marry him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wait till he repeats his offer. I think he may do it, now that he +knows—something I told him. I don’t for a moment dispute that it is +the most proper thing for you to marry him. Much as I have objected to him in +bygone days, I agree with you now, you may be sure. It is the only way out of a +false position, and a very galling one.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you tell him?” +</p> + +<p> +“That he was standing in the way of another lover of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt,” said Thomasin, with round eyes, “what <i>do</i> you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be alarmed; it was my duty. I can say no more about it now, +but when it is over I will tell you exactly what I said, and why I said +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin was perforce content. +</p> + +<p> +“And you will keep the secret of my would-be marriage from Clym for the +present?” she next asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have given my word to. But what is the use of it? He must soon know +what has happened. A mere look at your face will show him that something is +wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin turned and regarded her aunt from the tree. “Now, hearken to +me,” she said, her delicate voice expanding into firmness by a force +which was other than physical. “Tell him nothing. If he finds out that I +am not worthy to be his cousin, let him. But, since he loved me once, we will +not pain him by telling him my trouble too soon. The air is full of the story, +I know; but gossips will not dare to speak of it to him for the first few days. +His closeness to me is the very thing that will hinder the tale from reaching +him early. If I am not made safe from sneers in a week or two I will tell him +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +The earnestness with which Thomasin spoke prevented further objections. Her +aunt simply said, “Very well. He should by rights have been told at the +time that the wedding was going to be. He will never forgive you for your +secrecy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he will, when he knows it was because I wished to spare him, and +that I did not expect him home so soon. And you must not let me stand in the +way of your Christmas party. Putting it off would only make matters +worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I shall not. I do not wish to show myself beaten before all +Egdon, and the sport of a man like Wildeve. We have enough berries now, I +think, and we had better take them home. By the time we have decked the house +with this and hung up the mistletoe, we must think of starting to meet +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin came out of the tree, shook from her hair and dress the loose berries +which had fallen thereon, and went down the hill with her aunt, each woman +bearing half the gathered boughs. It was now nearly four o’clock, and the +sunlight was leaving the vales. When the west grew red the two relatives came +again from the house and plunged into the heath in a different direction from +the first, towards a point in the distant highway along which the expected man +was to return. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>III.<br /> +How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream</h2> + +<p> +Eustacia stood just within the heath, straining her eyes in the direction of +Mrs. Yeobright’s house and premises. No light, sound, or movement was +perceptible there. The evening was chilly; the spot was dark and lonely. She +inferred that the guest had not yet come; and after lingering ten or fifteen +minutes she turned again towards home. +</p> + +<p> +She had not far retraced her steps when sounds in front of her betokened the +approach of persons in conversation along the same path. Soon their heads +became visible against the sky. They were walking slowly; and though it was too +dark for much discovery of character from aspect, the gait of them showed that +they were not workers on the heath. Eustacia stepped a little out of the +foot-track to let them pass. They were two women and a man; and the voices of +the women were those of Mrs. Yeobright and Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +They went by her, and at the moment of passing appeared to discern her dusky +form. There came to her ears in a masculine voice, “Good night!” +</p> + +<p> +She murmured a reply, glided by them, and turned round. She could not, for a +moment, believe that chance, unrequested, had brought into her presence the +soul of the house she had gone to inspect, the man without whom her inspection +would not have been thought of. +</p> + +<p> +She strained her eyes to see them, but was unable. Such was her intentness, +however, that it seemed as if her ears were performing the functions of seeing +as well as hearing. This extension of power can almost be believed in at such +moments. The deaf Dr. Kitto was probably under the influence of a parallel +fancy when he described his body as having become, by long endeavour, so +sensitive to vibrations that he had gained the power of perceiving by it as by +ears. +</p> + +<p> +She could follow every word that the ramblers uttered. They were talking no +secrets. They were merely indulging in the ordinary vivacious chat of relatives +who have long been parted in person though not in soul. But it was not to the +words that Eustacia listened; she could not even have recalled, a few minutes +later, what the words were. It was to the alternating voice that gave out about +one-tenth of them—the voice that had wished her good night. Sometimes +this throat uttered Yes, sometimes it uttered No; sometimes it made inquiries +about a time-worn denizen of the place. Once it surprised her notions by +remarking upon the friendliness and geniality written in the faces of the hills +around. +</p> + +<p> +The three voices passed on, and decayed and died out upon her ear. Thus much +had been granted her; and all besides withheld. No event could have been more +exciting. During the greater part of the afternoon she had been entrancing +herself by imagining the fascination which must attend a man come direct from +beautiful Paris—laden with its atmosphere, familiar with its charms. And +this man had greeted her. +</p> + +<p> +With the departure of the figures the profuse articulations of the women wasted +away from her memory; but the accents of the other stayed on. Was there +anything in the voice of Mrs. Yeobright’s son—for Clym it +was—startling as a sound? No; it was simply comprehensive. All emotional +things were possible to the speaker of that “good night.” +Eustacia’s imagination supplied the rest—except the solution to one +riddle. What <i>could</i> the tastes of that man be who saw friendliness and +geniality in these shaggy hills? +</p> + +<p> +On such occasions as this a thousand ideas pass through a highly charged +woman’s head; and they indicate themselves on her face; but the changes, +though actual, are minute. Eustacia’s features went through a rhythmical +succession of them. She glowed; remembering the mendacity of the imagination, +she flagged; then she freshened; then she fired; then she cooled again. It was +a cycle of aspects, produced by a cycle of visions. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia entered her own house; she was excited. Her grandfather was enjoying +himself over the fire, raking about the ashes and exposing the red-hot surface +of the turves, so that their lurid glare irradiated the chimney-corner with the +hues of a furnace. +</p> + +<p> +“Why is it that we are never friendly with the Yeobrights?” she +said, coming forward and stretching her soft hands over the warmth. “I +wish we were. They seem to be very nice people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be hanged if I know why,” said the captain. “I liked the old +man well enough, though he was as rough as a hedge. But you would never have +cared to go there, even if you might have, I am well sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why shouldn’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your town tastes would find them far too countrified. They sit in the +kitchen, drink mead and elder-wine, and sand the floor to keep it clean. A +sensible way of life; but how would you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought Mrs. Yeobright was a ladylike woman? A curate’s +daughter, was she not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but she was obliged to live as her husband did; and I suppose she +has taken kindly to it by this time. Ah, I recollect that I once accidentally +offended her, and I have never seen her since.” +</p> + +<p> +That night was an eventful one to Eustacia’s brain, and one which she +hardly ever forgot. She dreamt a dream; and few human beings, from +Nebuchadnezzar to the Swaffham tinker, ever dreamt a more remarkable one. Such +an elaborately developed, perplexing, exciting dream was certainly never +dreamed by a girl in Eustacia’s situation before. It had as many +ramifications as the Cretan labyrinth, as many fluctuations as the northern +lights, as much colour as a parterre in June, and was as crowded with figures +as a coronation. To Queen Scheherazade the dream might have seemed not far +removed from commonplace; and to a girl just returned from all the courts of +Europe it might have seemed not more than interesting. But amid the +circumstances of Eustacia’s life it was as wonderful as a dream could be. +</p> + +<p> +There was, however, gradually evolved from its transformation scenes a less +extravagant episode, in which the heath dimly appeared behind the general +brilliancy of the action. She was dancing to wondrous music, and her partner +was the man in silver armour who had accompanied her through the previous +fantastic changes, the visor of his helmet being closed. The mazes of the dance +were ecstatic. Soft whispering came into her ear from under the radiant helmet, +and she felt like a woman in Paradise. Suddenly these two wheeled out from the +mass of dancers, dived into one of the pools of the heath, and came out +somewhere into an iridescent hollow, arched with rainbows. “It must be +here,” said the voice by her side, and blushingly looking up she saw him +removing his casque to kiss her. At that moment there was a cracking noise, and +his figure fell into fragments like a pack of cards. +</p> + +<p> +She cried aloud. “O that I had seen his face!” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia awoke. The cracking had been that of the window shutter downstairs, +which the maid-servant was opening to let in the day, now slowly increasing to +Nature’s meagre allowance at this sickly time of the year. “O that +I had seen his face!” she said again. “’Twas meant for Mr. +Yeobright!” +</p> + +<p> +When she became cooler she perceived that many of the phases of the dream had +naturally arisen out of the images and fancies of the day before. But this +detracted little from its interest, which lay in the excellent fuel it provided +for newly kindled fervour. She was at the modulating point between indifference +and love, at the stage called “having a fancy for.” It occurs once +in the history of the most gigantic passions, and it is a period when they are +in the hands of the weakest will. +</p> + +<p> +The perfervid woman was by this time half in love with a vision. The fantastic +nature of her passion, which lowered her as an intellect, raised her as a soul. +If she had had a little more self-control she would have attenuated the emotion +to nothing by sheer reasoning, and so have killed it off. If she had had a +little less pride she might have gone and circumambulated the Yeobrights’ +premises at Blooms-End at any maidenly sacrifice until she had seen him. But +Eustacia did neither of these things. She acted as the most exemplary might +have acted, being so influenced; she took an airing twice or thrice a day upon +the Egdon hills, and kept her eyes employed. +</p> + +<p> +The first occasion passed, and he did not come that way. +</p> + +<p> +She promenaded a second time, and was again the sole wanderer there. +</p> + +<p> +The third time there was a dense fog; she looked around, but without much hope. +Even if he had been walking within twenty yards of her she could not have seen +him. +</p> + +<p> +At the fourth attempt to encounter him it began to rain in torrents, and she +turned back. +</p> + +<p> +The fifth sally was in the afternoon; it was fine, and she remained out long, +walking to the very top of the valley in which Blooms-End lay. She saw the +white paling about half a mile off; but he did not appear. It was almost with +heart-sickness that she came home and with a sense of shame at her weakness. +She resolved to look for the man from Paris no more. +</p> + +<p> +But Providence is nothing if not coquettish; and no sooner had Eustacia formed +this resolve than the opportunity came which, while sought, had been entirely +withholden. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>IV.<br /> +Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure</h2> + +<p> +In the evening of this last day of expectation, which was the twenty-third of +December, Eustacia was at home alone. She had passed the recent hour in +lamenting over a rumour newly come to her ears—that Yeobright’s +visit to his mother was to be of short duration, and would end some time the +next week. “Naturally,” she said to herself. A man in the full +swing of his activities in a gay city could not afford to linger long on Egdon +Heath. That she would behold face to face the owner of the awakening voice +within the limits of such a holiday was most unlikely, unless she were to haunt +the environs of his mother’s house like a robin, to do which was +difficult and unseemly. +</p> + +<p> +The customary expedient of provincial girls and men in such circumstances is +churchgoing. In an ordinary village or country town one can safely calculate +that, either on Christmas day or the Sunday contiguous, any native home for the +holidays, who has not through age or ennui lost the appetite for seeing and +being seen, will turn up in some pew or other, shining with hope, +self-consciousness, and new clothes. Thus the congregation on Christmas morning +is mostly a Tussaud collection of celebrities who have been born in the +neighbourhood. Hither the mistress, left neglected at home all the year, can +steal and observe the development of the returned lover who has forgotten her, +and think as she watches him over her prayer book that he may throb with a +renewed fidelity when novelties have lost their charm. And hither a +comparatively recent settler like Eustacia may betake herself to scrutinize the +person of a native son who left home before her advent upon the scene, and +consider if the friendship of his parents be worth cultivating during his next +absence in order to secure a knowledge of him on his next return. +</p> + +<p> +But these tender schemes were not feasible among the scattered inhabitants of +Egdon Heath. In name they were parishioners, but virtually they belonged to no +parish at all. People who came to these few isolated houses to keep Christmas +with their friends remained in their friends’ chimney-corners drinking +mead and other comforting liquors till they left again for good and all. Rain, +snow, ice, mud everywhere around, they did not care to trudge two or three +miles to sit wet-footed and splashed to the nape of their necks among those +who, though in some measure neighbours, lived close to the church, and entered +it clean and dry. Eustacia knew it was ten to one that Clym Yeobright would go +to no church at all during his few days of leave, and that it would be a waste +of labour for her to go driving the pony and gig over a bad road in hope to see +him there. +</p> + +<p> +It was dusk, and she was sitting by the fire in the dining-room or hall, which +they occupied at this time of the year in preference to the parlour, because of +its large hearth, constructed for turf-fires, a fuel the captain was partial to +in the winter season. The only visible articles in the room were those on the +window-sill, which showed their shapes against the low sky, the middle article +being the old hourglass, and the other two a pair of ancient British urns which +had been dug from a barrow near, and were used as flowerpots for two +razor-leaved cactuses. Somebody knocked at the door. The servant was out; so +was her grandfather. The person, after waiting a minute, came in and tapped at +the door of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Cap’n Vye, will you let us——” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia arose and went to the door. “I cannot allow you to come in so +boldly. You should have waited.” +</p> + +<p> +“The cap’n said I might come in without any fuss,” was +answered in a lad’s pleasant voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, did he?” said Eustacia more gently. “What do you want, +Charley?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please will your grandfather lend us his fuelhouse to try over our parts +in, tonight at seven o’clock?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, are you one of the Egdon mummers for this year?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss. The cap’n used to let the old mummers practise +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it. Yes, you may use the fuelhouse if you like,” said +Eustacia languidly. +</p> + +<p> +The choice of Captain Vye’s fuelhouse as the scene of rehearsal was +dictated by the fact that his dwelling was nearly in the centre of the heath. +The fuelhouse was as roomy as a barn, and was a most desirable place for such a +purpose. The lads who formed the company of players lived at different +scattered points around, and by meeting in this spot the distances to be +traversed by all the comers would be about equally proportioned. +</p> + +<p> +For mummers and mumming Eustacia had the greatest contempt. The mummers +themselves were not afflicted with any such feeling for their art, though at +the same time they were not enthusiastic. A traditional pastime is to be +distinguished from a mere revival in no more striking feature than in this, +that while in the revival all is excitement and fervour, the survival is +carried on with a stolidity and absence of stir which sets one wondering why a +thing that is done so perfunctorily should be kept up at all. Like Balaam and +other unwilling prophets, the agents seem moved by an inner compulsion to say +and do their allotted parts whether they will or no. This unweeting manner of +performance is the true ring by which, in this refurbishing age, a fossilized +survival may be known from a spurious reproduction. +</p> + +<p> +The piece was the well-known play of Saint George, and all who were behind the +scenes assisted in the preparations, including the women of each household. +Without the co-operation of sisters and sweethearts the dresses were likely to +be a failure; but on the other hand, this class of assistance was not without +its drawbacks. The girls could never be brought to respect tradition in +designing and decorating the armour; they insisted on attaching loops and bows +of silk and velvet in any situation pleasing to their taste. Gorget, gusset, +basinet, cuirass, gauntlet, sleeve, all alike in the view of these feminine +eyes were practicable spaces whereon to sew scraps of fluttering colour. +</p> + +<p> +It might be that Joe, who fought on the side of Christendom, had a sweetheart, +and that Jim, who fought on the side of the Moslem, had one likewise. During +the making of the costumes it would come to the knowledge of Joe’s +sweetheart that Jim’s was putting brilliant silk scallops at the bottom +of her lover’s surcoat, in addition to the ribbons of the visor, the bars +of which, being invariably formed of coloured strips about half an inch wide +hanging before the face, were mostly of that material. Joe’s sweetheart +straight-way placed brilliant silk on the scallops of the hem in question, and, +going a little further, added ribbon tufts to the shoulder pieces. Jim’s, +not to be outdone, would affix bows and rosettes everywhere. +</p> + +<p> +The result was that in the end the Valiant Soldier, of the Christian army, was +distinguished by no peculiarity of accoutrement from the Turkish Knight; and +what was worse, on a casual view Saint George himself might be mistaken for his +deadly enemy, the Saracen. The guisers themselves, though inwardly regretting +this confusion of persons, could not afford to offend those by whose assistance +they so largely profited, and the innovations were allowed to stand. +</p> + +<p> +There was, it is true, a limit to this tendency to uniformity. The Leech or +Doctor preserved his character intact—his darker habiliments, peculiar +hat, and the bottle of physic slung under his arm, could never be mistaken. And +the same might be said of the conventional figure of Father Christmas, with his +gigantic club, an older man, who accompanied the band as general protector in +long night journeys from parish to parish, and was bearer of the purse. +</p> + +<p> +Seven o’clock, the hour of the rehearsal, came round, and in a short time +Eustacia could hear voices in the fuelhouse. To dissipate in some trifling +measure her abiding sense of the murkiness of human life she went to the +“linhay” or lean-to shed, which formed the root-store of their +dwelling and abutted on the fuelhouse. Here was a small rough hole in the mud +wall, originally made for pigeons, through which the interior of the next shed +could be viewed. A light came from it now; and Eustacia stepped upon a stool to +look in upon the scene. +</p> + +<p> +On a ledge in the fuelhouse stood three tall rushlights and by the light of +them seven or eight lads were marching about, haranguing, and confusing each +other, in endeavours to perfect themselves in the play. Humphrey and Sam, the +furze- and turf-cutters, were there looking on, so also was Timothy Fairway, +who leant against the wall and prompted the boys from memory, interspersing +among the set words remarks and anecdotes of the superior days when he and +others were the Egdon mummers-elect that these lads were now. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ye be as well up to it as ever ye will be,” he said. +“Not that such mumming would have passed in our time. Harry as the +Saracen should strut a bit more, and John needn’t holler his inside out. +Beyond that perhaps you’ll do. Have you got all your clothes +ready?” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall by Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your first outing will be Monday night, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. At Mrs. Yeobright’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mrs. Yeobright’s. What makes her want to see ye? I should +think a middle-aged woman was tired of mumming.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s got up a bit of a party, because ’tis the first +Christmas that her son Clym has been home for a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, to be sure—her party! I am going myself. I almost +forgot it, upon my life.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia’s face flagged. There was to be a party at the +Yeobrights’; she, naturally, had nothing to do with it. She was a +stranger to all such local gatherings, and had always held them as scarcely +appertaining to her sphere. But had she been going, what an opportunity would +have been afforded her of seeing the man whose influence was penetrating her +like summer sun! To increase that influence was coveted excitement; to cast it +off might be to regain serenity; to leave it as it stood was tantalizing. +</p> + +<p> +The lads and men prepared to leave the premises, and Eustacia returned to her +fireside. She was immersed in thought, but not for long. In a few minutes the +lad Charley, who had come to ask permission to use the place, returned with the +key to the kitchen. Eustacia heard him, and opening the door into the passage +said, “Charley, come here.” +</p> + +<p> +The lad was surprised. He entered the front room not without blushing; for he, +like many, had felt the power of this girl’s face and form. +</p> + +<p> +She pointed to a seat by the fire, and entered the other side of the +chimney-corner herself. It could be seen in her face that whatever motive she +might have had in asking the youth indoors would soon appear. +</p> + +<p> +“Which part do you play, Charley—the Turkish Knight, do you +not?” inquired the beauty, looking across the smoke of the fire to him on +the other side. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, the Turkish Knight,” he replied diffidently. +</p> + +<p> +“Is yours a long part?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nine speeches, about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you repeat them to me? If so I should like to hear them.” +</p> + +<p> +The lad smiled into the glowing turf and began— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Here come I, a Turkish Knight,<br /> +Who learnt in Turkish land to fight,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +continuing the discourse throughout the scenes to the concluding catastrophe of +his fall by the hand of Saint George. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia had occasionally heard the part recited before. When the lad ended she +began, precisely in the same words, and ranted on without hitch or divergence +till she too reached the end. It was the same thing, yet how different. Like in +form, it had the added softness and finish of a Raffaelle after Perugino, +which, while faithfully reproducing the original subject, entirely distances +the original art. +</p> + +<p> +Charley’s eyes rounded with surprise. “Well, you be a clever +lady!” he said, in admiration. “I’ve been three weeks +learning mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard it before,” she quietly observed. “Now, would +you do anything to please me, Charley?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d do a good deal, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you let me play your part for one night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, miss! But your woman’s gown—you couldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can get boy’s clothes—at least all that would be wanted +besides the mumming dress. What should I have to give you to lend me your +things, to let me take your place for an hour or two on Monday night, and on no +account to say a word about who or what I am? You would, of course, have to +excuse yourself from playing that night, and to say that somebody—a +cousin of Miss Vye’s—would act for you. The other mummers have +never spoken to me in their lives so that it would be safe enough; and if it +were not, I should not mind. Now, what must I give you to agree to this? Half a +crown?” +</p> + +<p> +The youth shook his head +</p> + +<p> +“Five shillings?” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head again. “Money won’t do it,” he said, +brushing the iron head of the firedog with the hollow of his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“What will, then, Charley?” said Eustacia in a disappointed tone. +</p> + +<p> +“You know what you forbade me at the Maypoling, miss,” murmured the +lad, without looking at her, and still stroking the firedog’s head. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Eustacia, with a little more hauteur. “You wanted +to join hands with me in the ring, if I recollect?” +</p> + +<p> +“Half an hour of that, and I’ll agree, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia regarded the youth steadfastly. He was three years younger than +herself, but apparently not backward for his age. “Half an hour of +what?” she said, though she guessed what. +</p> + +<p> +“Holding your hand in mine.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. “Make it a quarter of an hour,” she said +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss Eustacia—I will, if I may kiss it too. A quarter of an +hour. And I’ll swear to do the best I can to let you take my place +without anybody knowing. Don’t you think somebody might know your tongue, +miss?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is possible. But I will put a pebble in my mouth to make is less +likely. Very well; you shall be allowed to have my hand as soon as you bring +the dress and your sword and staff. I don’t want you any longer +now.” +</p> + +<p> +Charley departed, and Eustacia felt more and more interest in life. Here was +something to do: here was some one to see, and a charmingly adventurous way to +see him. “Ah,” she said to herself, “want of an object to +live for—that’s all is the matter with me!” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia’s manner was as a rule of a slumberous sort, her passions being +of the massive rather than the vivacious kind. But when aroused she would make +a dash which, just for the time, was not unlike the move of a naturally lively +person. +</p> + +<p> +On the question of recognition she was somewhat indifferent. By the acting lads +themselves she was not likely to be known. With the guests who might be +assembled she was hardly so secure. Yet detection, after all, would be no such +dreadful thing. The fact only could be detected, her true motive never. It +would be instantly set down as the passing freak of a girl whose ways were +already considered singular. That she was doing for an earnest reason what +would most naturally be done in jest was at any rate a safe secret. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The next evening Eustacia stood punctually at the fuelhouse door, waiting for +the dusk which was to bring Charley with the trappings. Her grandfather was at +home tonight, and she would be unable to ask her confederate indoors. +</p> + +<p> +He appeared on the dark ridge of heathland, like a fly on a Negro, bearing the +articles with him, and came up breathless with his walk. +</p> + +<p> +“Here are the things,” he whispered, placing them upon the +threshold. “And now, Miss Eustacia—” +</p> + +<p> +“The payment. It is quite ready. I am as good as my word.” +</p> + +<p> +She leant against the door-post, and gave him her hand. Charley took it in both +his own with a tenderness beyond description, unless it was like that of a +child holding a captured sparrow. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there’s a glove on it!” he said in a deprecating way. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been walking,” she observed. +</p> + +<p> +“But, miss!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—it is hardly fair.” She pulled off the glove, and gave +him her bare hand. +</p> + +<p> +They stood together minute after minute, without further speech, each looking +at the blackening scene, and each thinking his and her own thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I won’t use it all up tonight,” said Charley +devotedly, when six or eight minutes had been passed by him caressing her hand. +“May I have the other few minutes another time?” +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” said she without the least emotion. “But it +must be over in a week. Now, there is only one thing I want you to do—to +wait while I put on the dress, and then to see if I do my part properly. But +let me look first indoors.” +</p> + +<p> +She vanished for a minute or two, and went in. Her grandfather was safely +asleep in his chair. “Now, then,” she said, on returning, +“walk down the garden a little way, and when I am ready I’ll call +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Charley walked and waited, and presently heard a soft whistle. He returned to +the fuelhouse door. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you whistle, Miss Vye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; come in,” reached him in Eustacia’s voice from a back +quarter. “I must not strike a light till the door is shut, or it may be +seen shining. Push your hat into the hole through to the wash-house, if you can +feel your way across.” +</p> + +<p> +Charley did as commanded, and she struck the light revealing herself to be +changed in sex, brilliant in colours, and armed from top to toe. Perhaps she +quailed a little under Charley’s vigorous gaze, but whether any shyness +at her male attire appeared upon her countenance could not be seen by reason of +the strips of ribbon which used to cover the face in mumming costumes, +representing the barred visor of the mediæval helmet. +</p> + +<p> +“It fits pretty well,” she said, looking down at the white +overalls, “except that the tunic, or whatever you call it, is long in the +sleeve. The bottom of the overalls I can turn up inside. Now pay +attention.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia then proceeded in her delivery, striking the sword against the staff +or lance at the minatory phrases, in the orthodox mumming manner, and strutting +up and down. Charley seasoned his admiration with criticism of the gentlest +kind, for the touch of Eustacia’s hand yet remained with him. +</p> + +<p> +“And now for your excuse to the others,” she said. “Where do +you meet before you go to Mrs. Yeobright’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“We thought of meeting here, miss, if you have nothing to say against it. +At eight o’clock, so as to get there by nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Well, you of course must not appear. I will march in about five +minutes late, ready-dressed, and tell them that you can’t come. I have +decided that the best plan will be for you to be sent somewhere by me, to make +a real thing of the excuse. Our two heath-croppers are in the habit of straying +into the meads, and tomorrow evening you can go and see if they are gone there. +I’ll manage the rest. Now you may leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss. But I think I’ll have one minute more of what I am +owed, if you don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia gave him her hand as before. +</p> + +<p> +“One minute,” she said, and counted on till she reached seven or +eight minutes. Hand and person she then withdrew to a distance of several feet, +and recovered some of her old dignity. The contract completed, she raised +between them a barrier impenetrable as a wall. +</p> + +<p> +“There, ’tis all gone; and I didn’t mean quite all,” he +said, with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“You had good measure,” said she, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss. Well, ’tis over, and now I’ll get +home-along.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>V.<br /> +Through the Moonlight</h2> + +<p> +The next evening the mummers were assembled in the same spot, awaiting the +entrance of the Turkish Knight. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty minutes after eight by the Quiet Woman, and Charley not +come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ten minutes past by Blooms-End.” +</p> + +<p> +“It wants ten minutes to, by Grandfer Cantle’s watch.” +</p> + +<p> +“And ’tis five minutes past by the captain’s clock.” +</p> + +<p> +On Egdon there was no absolute hour of the day. The time at any moment was a +number of varying doctrines professed by the different hamlets, some of them +having originally grown up from a common root, and then become divided by +secession, some having been alien from the beginning. West Egdon believed in +Blooms-End time, East Egdon in the time of the Quiet Woman Inn. Grandfer +Cantle’s watch had numbered many followers in years gone by, but since he +had grown older faiths were shaken. Thus, the mummers having gathered hither +from scattered points each came with his own tenets on early and late; and they +waited a little longer as a compromise. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia had watched the assemblage through the hole; and seeing that now was +the proper moment to enter, she went from the “linhay” and boldly +pulled the bobbin of the fuelhouse door. Her grandfather was safe at the Quiet +Woman. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s Charley at last! How late you be, Charley.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis not Charley,” said the Turkish Knight from within his +visor. “’Tis a cousin of Miss Vye’s, come to take +Charley’s place from curiosity. He was obliged to go and look for the +heath-croppers that have got into the meads, and I agreed to take his place, as +he knew he couldn’t come back here again tonight. I know the part as well +as he.” +</p> + +<p> +Her graceful gait, elegant figure, and dignified manner in general won the +mummers to the opinion that they had gained by the exchange, if the newcomer +were perfect in his part. +</p> + +<p> +“It don’t matter—if you be not too young,” said Saint +George. Eustacia’s voice had sounded somewhat more juvenile and fluty +than Charley’s. +</p> + +<p> +“I know every word of it, I tell you,” said Eustacia decisively. +Dash being all that was required to carry her triumphantly through, she adopted +as much as was necessary. “Go ahead, lads, with the try-over. I’ll +challenge any of you to find a mistake in me.” +</p> + +<p> +The play was hastily rehearsed, whereupon the other mummers were delighted with +the new knight. They extinguished the candles at half-past eight, and set out +upon the heath in the direction of Mrs. Yeobright’s house at +Bloom’s-End. +</p> + +<p> +There was a slight hoarfrost that night, and the moon, though not more than +half full, threw a spirited and enticing brightness upon the fantastic figures +of the mumming band, whose plumes and ribbons rustled in their walk like autumn +leaves. Their path was not over Rainbarrow now, but down a valley which left +that ancient elevation a little to the east. The bottom of the vale was green +to a width of ten yards or thereabouts, and the shining facets of frost upon +the blades of grass seemed to move on with the shadows of those they +surrounded. The masses of furze and heath to the right and left were dark as +ever; a mere half-moon was powerless to silver such sable features as theirs. +</p> + +<p> +Half-an-hour of walking and talking brought them to the spot in the valley +where the grass riband widened and led down to the front of the house. At sight +of the place Eustacia who had felt a few passing doubts during her walk with +the youths, again was glad that the adventure had been undertaken. She had come +out to see a man who might possibly have the power to deliver her soul from a +most deadly oppression. What was Wildeve? Interesting, but inadequate. Perhaps +she would see a sufficient hero tonight. +</p> + +<p> +As they drew nearer to the front of the house the mummers became aware that +music and dancing were briskly flourishing within. Every now and then a long +low note from the serpent, which was the chief wind instrument played at these +times, advanced further into the heath than the thin treble part, and reached +their ears alone; and next a more than usual loud tread from a dancer would +come the same way. With nearer approach these fragmentary sounds became pieced +together, and were found to be the salient points of the tune called +“Nancy’s Fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +He was there, of course. Who was she that he danced with? Perhaps some unknown +woman, far beneath herself in culture, was by the most subtle of lures sealing +his fate this very instant. To dance with a man is to concentrate a +twelvemonth’s regulation fire upon him in the fragment of an hour. To +pass to courtship without acquaintance, to pass to marriage without courtship, +is a skipping of terms reserved for those alone who tread this royal road. She +would see how his heart lay by keen observation of them all. +</p> + +<p> +The enterprising lady followed the mumming company through the gate in the +white paling, and stood before the open porch. The house was encrusted with +heavy thatchings, which dropped between the upper windows; the front, upon +which the moonbeams directly played, had originally been white; but a huge +pyracanth now darkened the greater portion. +</p> + +<p> +It became at once evident that the dance was proceeding immediately within the +surface of the door, no apartment intervening. The brushing of skirts and +elbows, sometimes the bumping of shoulders, could be heard against the very +panels. Eustacia, though living within two miles of the place, had never seen +the interior of this quaint old habitation. Between Captain Vye and the +Yeobrights there had never existed much acquaintance, the former having come as +a stranger and purchased the long-empty house at Mistover Knap not long before +the death of Mrs. Yeobright’s husband; and with that event and the +departure of her son such friendship as had grown up became quite broken off. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there no passage inside the door, then?” asked Eustacia as they +stood within the porch. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the lad who played the Saracen. “The door opens +right upon the front sitting-room, where the spree’s going on.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that we cannot open the door without stopping the dance.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it. Here we must bide till they have done, for they always +bolt the back door after dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“They won’t be much longer,” said Father Christmas. +</p> + +<p> +This assertion, however, was hardly borne out by the event. Again the +instruments ended the tune; again they recommenced with as much fire and pathos +as if it were the first strain. The air was now that one without any particular +beginning, middle, or end, which perhaps, among all the dances which throng an +inspired fiddler’s fancy, best conveys the idea of the +interminable—the celebrated “Devil’s Dream.” The fury +of personal movement that was kindled by the fury of the notes could be +approximately imagined by these outsiders under the moon, from the occasional +kicks of toes and heels against the door, whenever the whirl round had been of +more than customary velocity. +</p> + +<p> +The first five minutes of listening was interesting enough to the mummers. The +five minutes extended to ten minutes, and these to a quarter of an hour; but no +signs of ceasing were audible in the lively “Dream.” The bumping +against the door, the laughter, the stamping, were all as vigorous as ever, and +the pleasure in being outside lessened considerably. +</p> + +<p> +“Why does Mrs. Yeobright give parties of this sort?” Eustacia +asked, a little surprised to hear merriment so pronounced. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not one of her bettermost parlour-parties. She’s asked the +plain neighbours and workpeople without drawing any lines, just to give +’em a good supper and such like. Her son and she wait upon the +folks.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis the last strain, I think,” said Saint George, with his +ear to the panel. “A young man and woman have just swung into this +corner, and he’s saying to her, ‘Ah, the pity; ’tis over for +us this time, my own.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God,” said the Turkish Knight, stamping, and taking from the +wall the conventional lance that each of the mummers carried. Her boots being +thinner than those of the young men, the hoar had damped her feet and made them +cold. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my song ’tis another ten minutes for us,” said the +Valiant Soldier, looking through the keyhole as the tune modulated into another +without stopping. “Grandfer Cantle is standing in this corner, waiting +his turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twon’t be long; ’tis a six-handed reel,” said +the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not go in, dancing or no? They sent for us,” said the Saracen. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” said Eustacia authoritatively, as she paced +smartly up and down from door to gate to warm herself. “We should burst +into the middle of them and stop the dance, and that would be +unmannerly.” +</p> + +<p> +“He thinks himself somebody because he has had a bit more schooling than +we,” said the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“You may go to the deuce!” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +There was a whispered conversation between three or four of them, and one +turned to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell us one thing?” he said, not without gentleness. +“Be you Miss Vye? We think you must be.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may think what you like,” said Eustacia slowly. “But +honourable lads will not tell tales upon a lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll say nothing, miss. That’s upon our honour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the fiddles finished off with a screech, and the serpent emitted +a last note that nearly lifted the roof. When, from the comparative quiet +within, the mummers judged that the dancers had taken their seats, Father +Christmas advanced, lifted the latch, and put his head inside the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the mummers, the mummers!” cried several guests at once. +“Clear a space for the mummers.” +</p> + +<p> +Humpbacked Father Christmas then made a complete entry, swinging his huge club, +and in a general way clearing the stage for the actors proper, while he +informed the company in smart verse that he was come, welcome or welcome not; +concluding his speech with +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Make room, make room, my gallant boys,<br /> +And give us space to rhyme;<br /> +We’ve come to show Saint George’s play,<br /> +Upon this Christmas time.” +</p> + +<p> +The guests were now arranging themselves at one end of the room, the fiddler +was mending a string, the serpent-player was emptying his mouthpiece, and the +play began. First of those outside the Valiant Soldier entered, in the interest +of Saint George— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Here come I, the Valiant Soldier;<br /> +Slasher is my name”; +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and so on. This speech concluded with a challenge to the infidel, at the end of +which it was Eustacia’s duty to enter as the Turkish Knight. She, with +the rest who were not yet on, had hitherto remained in the moonlight which +streamed under the porch. With no apparent effort or backwardness she came in, +beginning— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Here come I, a Turkish Knight,<br /> +Who learnt in Turkish land to fight;<br /> +I’ll fight this man with courage bold:<br /> +If his blood’s hot I’ll make it cold!” +</p> + +<p> +During her declamation Eustacia held her head erect, and spoke as roughly as +she could, feeling pretty secure from observation. But the concentration upon +her part necessary to prevent discovery, the newness of the scene, the shine of +the candles, and the confusing effect upon her vision of the ribboned visor +which hid her features, left her absolutely unable to perceive who were present +as spectators. On the further side of a table bearing candles she could faintly +discern faces, and that was all. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Jim Starks as the Valiant Soldier had come forward, and, with a glare +upon the Turk, replied— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“If, then, thou art that Turkish Knight,<br /> +Draw out thy sword, and let us fight!” +</p> + +<p> +And fight they did; the issue of the combat being that the Valiant Soldier was +slain by a preternaturally inadequate thrust from Eustacia, Jim, in his ardour +for genuine histrionic art, coming down like a log upon the stone floor with +force enough to dislocate his shoulder. Then, after more words from the Turkish +Knight, rather too faintly delivered, and statements that he’d fight +Saint George and all his crew, Saint George himself magnificently entered with +the well-known flourish— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Here come I, Saint George, the valiant man,<br /> +With naked sword and spear in hand,<br /> +Who fought the dragon and brought him to the slaughter,<br /> +And by this won fair Sabra, the King of Egypt’s daughter;<br /> +What mortal man would dare to stand<br /> +Before me with my sword in hand?” +</p> + +<p> +This was the lad who had first recognized Eustacia; and when she now, as the +Turk, replied with suitable defiance, and at once began the combat, the young +fellow took especial care to use his sword as gently as possible. Being +wounded, the Knight fell upon one knee, according to the direction. The Doctor +now entered, restored the Knight by giving him a draught from the bottle which +he carried, and the fight was again resumed, the Turk sinking by degrees until +quite overcome—dying as hard in this venerable drama as he is said to do +at the present day. +</p> + +<p> +This gradual sinking to the earth was, in fact, one reason why Eustacia had +thought that the part of the Turkish Knight, though not the shortest, would +suit her best. A direct fall from upright to horizontal, which was the end of +the other fighting characters, was not an elegant or decorous part for a girl. +But it was easy to die like a Turk, by a dogged decline. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was now among the number of the slain, though not on the floor, for +she had managed to sink into a sloping position against the clock-case, so that +her head was well elevated. The play proceeded between Saint George, the +Saracen, the Doctor, and Father Christmas; and Eustacia, having no more to do, +for the first time found leisure to observe the scene round, and to search for +the form that had drawn her hither. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>VI.<br /> +The Two Stand Face to Face</h2> + +<p> +The room had been arranged with a view to the dancing, the large oak table +having been moved back till it stood as a breastwork to the fireplace. At each +end, behind, and in the chimney-corner were grouped the guests, many of them +being warm-faced and panting, among whom Eustacia cursorily recognized some +well-to-do persons from beyond the heath. Thomasin, as she had expected, was +not visible, and Eustacia recollected that a light had shone from an upper +window when they were outside—the window, probably, of Thomasin’s +room. A nose, chin, hands, knees, and toes projected from the seat within the +chimney opening, which members she found to unite in the person of Grandfer +Cantle, Mrs. Yeobright’s occasional assistant in the garden, and +therefore one of the invited. The smoke went up from an Etna of peat in front +of him, played round the notches of the chimney-crook, struck against the +salt-box, and got lost among the flitches. +</p> + +<p> +Another part of the room soon riveted her gaze. At the other side of the +chimney stood the settle, which is the necessary supplement to a fire so open +that nothing less than a strong breeze will carry up the smoke. It is, to the +hearths of old-fashioned cavernous fireplaces, what the east belt of trees is +to the exposed country estate, or the north wall to the garden. Outside the +settle candles gutter, locks of hair wave, young women shiver, and old men +sneeze. Inside is Paradise. Not a symptom of a draught disturbs the air; the +sitters’ backs are as warm as their faces, and songs and old tales are +drawn from the occupants by the comfortable heat, like fruit from melon plants +in a frame. +</p> + +<p> +It was, however, not with those who sat in the settle that Eustacia was +concerned. A face showed itself with marked distinctness against the +dark-tanned wood of the upper part. The owner, who was leaning against the +settle’s outer end, was Clement Yeobright, or Clym, as he was called +here; she knew it could be nobody else. The spectacle constituted an area of +two feet in Rembrandt’s intensest manner. A strange power in the +lounger’s appearance lay in the fact that, though his whole figure was +visible, the observer’s eye was only aware of his face. +</p> + +<p> +To one of middle age the countenance was that of a young man, though a youth +might hardly have seen any necessity for the term of immaturity. But it was +really one of those faces which convey less the idea of so many years as its +age than of so much experience as its store. The number of their years may have +adequately summed up Jared, Mahalaleel, and the rest of the antediluvians, but +the age of a modern man is to be measured by the intensity of his history. +</p> + +<p> +The face was well shaped, even excellently. But the mind within was beginning +to use it as a mere waste tablet whereon to trace its idiosyncrasies as they +developed themselves. The beauty here visible would in no long time be +ruthlessly over-run by its parasite, thought, which might just as well have fed +upon a plainer exterior where there was nothing it could harm. Had Heaven +preserved Yeobright from a wearing habit of meditation, people would have said, +“A handsome man.” Had his brain unfolded under sharper contours +they would have said, “A thoughtful man.” But an inner +strenuousness was preying upon an outer symmetry, and they rated his look as +singular. +</p> + +<p> +Hence people who began by beholding him ended by perusing him. His countenance +was overlaid with legible meanings. Without being thought-worn he yet had +certain marks derived from a perception of his surroundings, such as are not +unfrequently found on men at the end of the four or five years of endeavour +which follow the close of placid pupilage. He already showed that thought is a +disease of flesh, and indirectly bore evidence that ideal physical beauty is +incompatible with emotional development and a full recognition of the coil of +things. Mental luminousness must be fed with the oil of life, even though there +is already a physical need for it; and the pitiful sight of two demands on one +supply was just showing itself here. +</p> + +<p> +When standing before certain men the philosopher regrets that thinkers are but +perishable tissue, the artist that perishable tissue has to think. Thus to +deplore, each from his point of view, the mutually destructive interdependence +of spirit and flesh would have been instinctive with these in critically +observing Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +As for his look, it was a natural cheerfulness striving against depression from +without, and not quite succeeding. The look suggested isolation, but it +revealed something more. As is usual with bright natures, the deity that lies +ignominiously chained within an ephemeral human carcase shone out of him like a +ray. +</p> + +<p> +The effect upon Eustacia was palpable. The extraordinary pitch of excitement +that she had reached beforehand would, indeed, have caused her to be influenced +by the most commonplace man. She was troubled at Yeobright’s presence. +</p> + +<p> +The remainder of the play ended—the Saracen’s head was cut off, and +Saint George stood as victor. Nobody commented, any more than they would have +commented on the fact of mushrooms coming in autumn or snowdrops in spring. +They took the piece as phlegmatically as did the actors themselves. It was a +phase of cheerfulness which was, as a matter of course, to be passed through +every Christmas; and there was no more to be said. +</p> + +<p> +They sang the plaintive chant which follows the play, during which all the dead +men rise to their feet in a silent and awful manner, like the ghosts of +Napoleon’s soldiers in the Midnight Review. Afterwards the door opened, +and Fairway appeared on the threshold, accompanied by Christian and another. +They had been waiting outside for the conclusion of the play, as the players +had waited for the conclusion of the dance. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Yeobright; and Clym went forward to +welcome them. “How is it you are so late? Grandfer Cantle has been here +ever so long, and we thought you’d have come with him, as you live so +near one another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I should have come earlier,” Mr. Fairway said and paused to +look along the beam of the ceiling for a nail to hang his hat on; but, finding +his accustomed one to be occupied by the mistletoe, and all the nails in the +walls to be burdened with bunches of holly, he at last relieved himself of the +hat by ticklishly balancing it between the candle-box and the head of the +clock-case. “I should have come earlier, ma’am,” he resumed, +with a more composed air, “but I know what parties be, and how +there’s none too much room in folks’ houses at such times, so I +thought I wouldn’t come till you’d got settled a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I thought so too, Mrs. Yeobright,” said Christian earnestly, +“but Father there was so eager that he had no manners at all, and left +home almost afore ’twas dark. I told him ’twas barely decent in +a’ old man to come so oversoon; but words be wind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Klk! I wasn’t going to bide waiting about, till half the game was +over! I’m as light as a kite when anything’s going on!” +crowed Grandfer Cantle from the chimneyseat. +</p> + +<p> +Fairway had meanwhile concluded a critical gaze at Yeobright. “Now, you +may not believe it,” he said to the rest of the room, “but I should +never have knowed this gentleman if I had met him anywhere off his own +he’th—he’s altered so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“You too have altered, and for the better, I think Timothy,” said +Yeobright, surveying the firm figure of Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Master Yeobright, look me over too. I have altered for the better, +haven’t I, hey?” said Grandfer Cantle, rising and placing himself +something above half a foot from Clym’s eye, to induce the most searching +criticism. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure we will,” said Fairway, taking the candle and moving it +over the surface of the Grandfer’s countenance, the subject of his +scrutiny irradiating himself with light and pleasant smiles, and giving himself +jerks of juvenility. +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t changed much,” said Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“If there’s any difference, Grandfer is younger,” appended +Fairway decisively. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet not my own doing, and I feel no pride in it,” said the +pleased ancient. “But I can’t be cured of my vagaries; them I plead +guilty to. Yes, Master Cantle always was that, as we know. But I am nothing by +the side of you, Mister Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor any o’ us,” said Humphrey, in a low rich tone of +admiration, not intended to reach anybody’s ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, there would have been nobody here who could have stood as decent +second to him, or even third, if I hadn’t been a soldier in the Bang-up +Locals (as we was called for our smartness),” said Grandfer Cantle. +“And even as ’tis we all look a little scammish beside him. But in +the year four ’twas said there wasn’t a finer figure in the whole +South Wessex than I, as I looked when dashing past the shop-winders with the +rest of our company on the day we ran out o’ Budmouth because it was +thoughted that Boney had landed round the point. There was I, straight as a +young poplar, wi’ my firelock, and my bagnet, and my spatterdashes, and +my stock sawing my jaws off, and my accoutrements sheening like the seven +stars! Yes, neighbours, I was a pretty sight in my soldiering days. You ought +to have seen me in four!” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis his mother’s side where Master Clym’s figure +comes from, bless ye,” said Timothy. “I know’d her brothers +well. Longer coffins were never made in the whole country of South Wessex, and +’tis said that poor George’s knees were crumpled up a little +e’en as ’twas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Coffins, where?” inquired Christian, drawing nearer. “Have +the ghost of one appeared to anybody, Master Fairway?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no. Don’t let your mind so mislead your ears, Christian; and +be a man,” said Timothy reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I will.” said Christian. “But now I think o’t my +shadder last night seemed just the shape of a coffin. What is it a sign of when +your shade’s like a coffin, neighbours? It can’t be nothing to be +afeared of, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Afeared, no!” said the Grandfer. “Faith, I was never afeard +of nothing except Boney, or I shouldn’t ha’ been the soldier I was. +Yes, ’tis a thousand pities you didn’t see me in four!” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the mummers were preparing to leave; but Mrs. Yeobright stopped +them by asking them to sit down and have a little supper. To this invitation +Father Christmas, in the name of them all, readily agreed. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was happy in the opportunity of staying a little longer. The cold and +frosty night without was doubly frigid to her. But the lingering was not +without its difficulties. Mrs. Yeobright, for want of room in the larger +apartment, placed a bench for the mummers halfway through the pantry door, +which opened from the sitting-room. Here they seated themselves in a row, the +door being left open—thus they were still virtually in the same +apartment. Mrs. Yeobright now murmured a few words to her son, who crossed the +room to the pantry door, striking his head against the mistletoe as he passed, +and brought the mummers beef and bread, cake pastry, mead, and elder-wine, the +waiting being done by him and his mother, that the little maid-servant might +sit as guest. The mummers doffed their helmets, and began to eat and drink. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will surely have some?” said Clym to the Turkish Knight, +as he stood before that warrior, tray in hand. She had refused, and still sat +covered, only the sparkle of her eyes being visible between the ribbons which +covered her face. +</p> + +<p> +“None, thank you,” replied Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s quite a youngster,” said the Saracen apologetically, +“and you must excuse him. He’s not one of the old set, but have +jined us because t’other couldn’t come.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he will take something?” persisted Yeobright. “Try a +glass of mead or elder-wine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you had better try that,” said the Saracen. “It will +keep the cold out going home-along.” +</p> + +<p> +Though Eustacia could not eat without uncovering her face she could drink +easily enough beneath her disguise. The elder-wine was accordingly accepted, +and the glass vanished inside the ribbons. +</p> + +<p> +At moments during this performance Eustacia was half in doubt about the +security of her position; yet it had a fearful joy. A series of attentions paid +to her, and yet not to her but to some imaginary person, by the first man she +had ever been inclined to adore, complicated her emotions indescribably. She +had loved him partly because he was exceptional in this scene, partly because +she had determined to love him, chiefly because she was in desperate need of +loving somebody after wearying of Wildeve. Believing that she must love him in +spite of herself, she had been influenced after the fashion of the second Lord +Lyttleton and other persons, who have dreamed that they were to die on a +certain day, and by stress of a morbid imagination have actually brought about +that event. Once let a maiden admit the possibility of her being stricken with +love for someone at a certain hour and place, and the thing is as good as done. +</p> + +<p> +Did anything at this moment suggest to Yeobright the sex of the creature whom +that fantastic guise inclosed, how extended was her scope both in feeling and +in making others feel, and how far her compass transcended that of her +companions in the band? When the disguised Queen of Love appeared before Æneas +a preternatural perfume accompanied her presence and betrayed her quality. If +such a mysterious emanation ever was projected by the emotions of an earthly +woman upon their object, it must have signified Eustacia’s presence to +Yeobright now. He looked at her wistfully, then seemed to fall into a reverie, +as if he were forgetting what he observed. The momentary situation ended, he +passed on, and Eustacia sipped her wine without knowing what she drank. The man +for whom she had pre-determined to nourish a passion went into the small room, +and across it to the further extremity. +</p> + +<p> +The mummers, as has been stated, were seated on a bench, one end of which +extended into the small apartment, or pantry, for want of space in the outer +room. Eustacia, partly from shyness, had chosen the midmost seat, which thus +commanded a view of the interior of the pantry as well as the room containing +the guests. When Clym passed down the pantry her eyes followed him in the gloom +which prevailed there. At the remote end was a door which, just as he was about +to open it for himself, was opened by somebody within; and light streamed +forth. +</p> + +<p> +The person was Thomasin, with a candle, looking anxious, pale, and interesting. +Yeobright appeared glad to see her, and pressed her hand. “That’s +right, Tamsie,” he said heartily, as though recalled to himself by the +sight of her, “you have decided to come down. I am glad of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush—no, no,” she said quickly. “I only came to speak +to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why not join us?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot. At least I would rather not. I am not well enough, and we +shall have plenty of time together now you are going to be home a good long +holiday.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t nearly so pleasant without you. Are you really +ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just a little, my old cousin—here,” she said, playfully +sweeping her hand across her heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Mother should have asked somebody else to be present tonight, +perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, indeed. I merely stepped down, Clym, to ask you—” Here +he followed her through the doorway into the private room beyond, and, the door +closing, Eustacia and the mummer who sat next to her, the only other witness of +the performance, saw and heard no more. +</p> + +<p> +The heat flew to Eustacia’s head and cheeks. She instantly guessed that +Clym, having been home only these two or three days, had not as yet been made +acquainted with Thomasin’s painful situation with regard to Wildeve; and +seeing her living there just as she had been living before he left home, he +naturally suspected nothing. Eustacia felt a wild jealousy of Thomasin on the +instant. Though Thomasin might possibly have tender sentiments towards another +man as yet, how long could they be expected to last when she was shut up here +with this interesting and travelled cousin of hers? There was no knowing what +affection might not soon break out between the two, so constantly in each +other’s society, and not a distracting object near. Clym’s boyish +love for her might have languished, but it might easily be revived again. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was nettled by her own contrivances. What a sheer waste of herself to +be dressed thus while another was shining to advantage! Had she known the full +effect of the encounter she would have moved heaven and earth to get here in a +natural manner. The power of her face all lost, the charm of her emotions all +disguised, the fascinations of her coquetry denied existence, nothing but a +voice left to her; she had a sense of the doom of Echo. “Nobody here +respects me,” she said. She had overlooked the fact that, in coming as a +boy among other boys, she would be treated as a boy. The slight, though of her +own causing, and self-explanatory, she was unable to dismiss as unwittingly +shown, so sensitive had the situation made her. +</p> + +<p> +Women have done much for themselves in histrionic dress. To look far below +those who, like a certain fair personator of Polly Peachum early in the last +century, and another of Lydia Languish early in this,<a href="#fn-1" name="fnref-1" id="fnref-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> +have won not only love but ducal coronets into the bargain, whole shoals of +them have reached to the initial satisfaction of getting love almost whence +they would. But the Turkish Knight was denied even the chance of achieving this +by the fluttering ribbons which she dared not brush aside. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-1" id="fn-1"></a> <a href="#fnref-1">[1]</a> +Written in 1877. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright returned to the room without his cousin. When within two or three +feet of Eustacia he stopped, as if again arrested by a thought. He was gazing +at her. She looked another way, disconcerted, and wondered how long this +purgatory was to last. After lingering a few seconds he passed on again. +</p> + +<p> +To court their own discomfiture by love is a common instinct with certain +perfervid women. Conflicting sensations of love, fear, and shame reduced +Eustacia to a state of the utmost uneasiness. To escape was her great and +immediate desire. The other mummers appeared to be in no hurry to leave; and +murmuring to the lad who sat next to her that she preferred waiting for them +outside the house, she moved to the door as imperceptibly as possible, opened +it, and slipped out. +</p> + +<p> +The calm, lone scene reassured her. She went forward to the palings and leant +over them, looking at the moon. She had stood thus but a little time when the +door again opened. Expecting to see the remainder of the band Eustacia turned; +but no—Clym Yeobright came out as softly as she had done, and closed the +door behind him. +</p> + +<p> +He advanced and stood beside her. “I have an odd opinion,” he said, +“and should like to ask you a question. Are you a woman—or am I +wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes lingered on her with great interest. “Do girls often play as +mummers now? They never used to.” +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“To get excitement and shake off depression,” she said in low +tones. +</p> + +<p> +“What depressed you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Life.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a cause of depression a good many have to put up +with.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +A long silence. “And do you find excitement?” asked Clym at last. +</p> + +<p> +“At this moment, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are vexed at being discovered?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; though I thought I might be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would gladly have asked you to our party had I known you wished to +come. Have I ever been acquainted with you in my youth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come in again, and stay as long as you like?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I wish not to be further recognized.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you are safe with me.” After remaining in thought a minute +he added gently, “I will not intrude upon you longer. It is a strange way +of meeting, and I will not ask why I find a cultivated woman playing such a +part as this.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not volunteer the reason which he seemed to hope for, and he wished her +good night, going thence round to the back of the house, where he walked up and +down by himself for some time before re-entering. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia, warmed with an inner fire, could not wait for her companions after +this. She flung back the ribbons from her face, opened the gate, and at once +struck into the heath. She did not hasten along. Her grandfather was in bed at +this hour, for she so frequently walked upon the hills on moonlight nights that +he took no notice of her comings and goings, and, enjoying himself in his own +way, left her to do likewise. A more important subject than that of getting +indoors now engrossed her. Yeobright, if he had the least curiosity, would +infallibly discover her name. What then? She first felt a sort of exultation at +the way in which the adventure had terminated, even though at moments between +her exultations she was abashed and blushful. Then this consideration recurred +to chill her: What was the use of her exploit? She was at present a total +stranger to the Yeobright family. The unreasonable nimbus of romance with which +she had encircled that man might be her misery. How could she allow herself to +become so infatuated with a stranger? And to fill the cup of her sorrow there +would be Thomasin, living day after day in inflammable proximity to him; for +she had just learnt that, contrary to her first belief, he was going to stay at +home some considerable time. +</p> + +<p> +She reached the wicket at Mistover Knap, but before opening it she turned and +faced the heath once more. The form of Rainbarrow stood above the hills, and +the moon stood above Rainbarrow. The air was charged with silence and frost. +The scene reminded Eustacia of a circumstance which till that moment she had +totally forgotten. She had promised to meet Wildeve by the Barrow this very +night at eight, to give a final answer to his pleading for an elopement. +</p> + +<p> +She herself had fixed the evening and the hour. He had probably come to the +spot, waited there in the cold, and been greatly disappointed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, so much the better—it did not hurt him,” she said +serenely. Wildeve had at present the rayless outline of the sun through smoked +glass, and she could say such things as that with the greatest facility. +</p> + +<p> +She remained deeply pondering; and Thomasin’s winning manner towards her +cousin arose again upon Eustacia’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +“O that she had been married to Damon before this!” she said. +“And she would if it hadn’t been for me! If I had only +known—if I had only known!” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia once more lifted her deep stormy eyes to the moonlight, and, sighing +that tragic sigh of hers which was so much like a shudder, entered the shadow +of the roof. She threw off her trappings in the outhouse, rolled them up, and +went indoors to her chamber. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>VII.<br /> +A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness</h2> + +<p> +The old captain’s prevailing indifference to his granddaughter’s +movements left her free as a bird to follow her own courses; but it so happened +that he did take upon himself the next morning to ask her why she had walked +out so late. +</p> + +<p> +“Only in search of events, Grandfather,” she said, looking out of +the window with that drowsy latency of manner which discovered so much force +behind it whenever the trigger was pressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Search of events—one would think you were one of the bucks I knew +at one-and-twenty.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is lonely here.” +</p> + +<p> +“So much the better. If I were living in a town my whole time would be +taken up in looking after you. I fully expected you would have been home when I +returned from the Woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t conceal what I did. I wanted an adventure, and I went with +the mummers. I played the part of the Turkish Knight.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, never? Ha, ha! Good gad! I didn’t expect it of you, +Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was my first performance, and it certainly will be my last. Now I +have told you—and remember it is a secret.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. But, Eustacia, you never did—ha! ha! Dammy, how +’twould have pleased me forty years ago! But remember, no more of it, my +girl. You may walk on the heath night or day, as you choose, so that you +don’t bother me; but no figuring in breeches again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need have no fear for me, Grandpapa.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the conversation ceased, Eustacia’s moral training never exceeding +in severity a dialogue of this sort, which, if it ever became profitable to +good works, would be a result not dear at the price. But her thoughts soon +strayed far from her own personality; and, full of a passionate and +indescribable solicitude for one to whom she was not even a name, she went +forth into the amplitude of tanned wild around her, restless as Ahasuerus the +Jew. She was about half a mile from her residence when she beheld a sinister +redness arising from a ravine a little way in advance—dull and lurid like +a flame in sunlight and she guessed it to signify Diggory Venn. +</p> + +<p> +When the farmers who had wished to buy in a new stock of reddle during the last +month had inquired where Venn was to be found, people replied, “On Egdon +Heath.” Day after day the answer was the same. Now, since Egdon was +populated with heath-croppers and furze-cutters rather than with sheep and +shepherds, and the downs where most of the latter were to be found lay some to +the north, some to the west of Egdon, his reason for camping about there like +Israel in Zin was not apparent. The position was central and occasionally +desirable. But the sale of reddle was not Diggory’s primary object in +remaining on the heath, particularly at so late a period of the year, when most +travellers of his class had gone into winter quarters. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia looked at the lonely man. Wildeve had told her at their last meeting +that Venn had been thrust forward by Mrs. Yeobright as one ready and anxious to +take his place as Thomasin’s betrothed. His figure was perfect, his face +young and well outlined, his eye bright, his intelligence keen, and his +position one which he could readily better if he chose. But in spite of +possibilities it was not likely that Thomasin would accept this Ishmaelitish +creature while she had a cousin like Yeobright at her elbow, and Wildeve at the +same time not absolutely indifferent. Eustacia was not long in guessing that +poor Mrs. Yeobright, in her anxiety for her niece’s future, had mentioned +this lover to stimulate the zeal of the other. Eustacia was on the side of the +Yeobrights now, and entered into the spirit of the aunt’s desire. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, miss,” said the reddleman, taking off his cap of +hareskin, and apparently bearing her no ill-will from recollection of their +last meeting. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, reddleman,” she said, hardly troubling to lift her +heavily shaded eyes to his. “I did not know you were so near. Is your van +here too?” +</p> + +<p> +Venn moved his elbow towards a hollow in which a dense brake of purple-stemmed +brambles had grown to such vast dimensions as almost to form a dell. Brambles, +though churlish when handled, are kindly shelter in early winter, being the +latest of the deciduous bushes to lose their leaves. +</p> + +<p> +The roof and chimney of Venn’s caravan showed behind the tracery and +tangles of the brake. +</p> + +<p> +“You remain near this part?” she asked with more interest. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have business here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not altogether the selling of reddle?” +</p> + +<p> +“It has nothing to do with that.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has to do with Miss Yeobright?” +</p> + +<p> +Her face seemed to ask for an armed peace, and he therefore said frankly, +“Yes, miss; it is on account of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“On account of your approaching marriage with her?” +</p> + +<p> +Venn flushed through his stain. “Don’t make sport of me, Miss +Vye,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t true?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not.” +</p> + +<p> +She was thus convinced that the reddleman was a mere <i>pis aller</i> in Mrs. +Yeobright’s mind; one, moreover, who had not even been informed of his +promotion to that lowly standing. “It was a mere notion of mine,” +she said quietly; and was about to pass by without further speech, when, +looking round to the right, she saw a painfully well-known figure serpentining +upwards by one of the little paths which led to the top where she stood. Owing +to the necessary windings of his course his back was at present towards them. +She glanced quickly round; to escape that man there was only one way. Turning +to Venn, she said, “Would you allow me to rest a few minutes in your van? +The banks are damp for sitting on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, miss; I’ll make a place for you.” +</p> + +<p> +She followed him behind the dell of brambles to his wheeled dwelling into which +Venn mounted, placing the three-legged stool just within the door. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the best I can do for you,” he said, stepping down and +retiring to the path, where he resumed the smoking of his pipe as he walked up +and down. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia bounded into the vehicle and sat on the stool, ensconced from view on +the side towards the trackway. Soon she heard the brushing of other feet than +the reddleman’s, a not very friendly “Good day” uttered by +two men in passing each other, and then the dwindling of the foot-fall of one +of them in a direction onwards. Eustacia stretched her neck forward till she +caught a glimpse of a receding back and shoulders; and she felt a wretched +twinge of misery, she knew not why. It was the sickening feeling which, if the +changed heart has any generosity at all in its composition, accompanies the +sudden sight of a once-loved one who is beloved no more. +</p> + +<p> +When Eustacia descended to proceed on her way the reddleman came near. +“That was Mr. Wildeve who passed, miss,” he said slowly, and +expressed by his face that he expected her to feel vexed at having been sitting +unseen. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I saw him coming up the hill,” replied Eustacia. “Why +should you tell me that?” It was a bold question, considering the +reddleman’s knowledge of her past love; but her undemonstrative manner +had power to repress the opinions of those she treated as remote from her. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear that you can ask it,” said the reddleman +bluntly. “And, now I think of it, it agrees with what I saw last +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—what was that?” Eustacia wished to leave him, but wished +to know. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Wildeve stayed at Rainbarrow a long time waiting for a lady who +didn’t come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You waited too, it seems?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I always do. I was glad to see him disappointed. He will be there +again tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be again disappointed. The truth is, reddleman, that that lady, so +far from wishing to stand in the way of Thomasin’s marriage with Mr. +Wildeve, would be very glad to promote it.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn felt much astonishment at this avowal, though he did not show it clearly; +that exhibition may greet remarks which are one remove from expectation, but it +is usually withheld in complicated cases of two removes and upwards. +“Indeed, miss,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that Mr. Wildeve will come to Rainbarrow again +tonight?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard him say to himself that he would. He’s in a regular +temper.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia looked for a moment what she felt, and she murmured, lifting her deep +dark eyes anxiously to his, “I wish I knew what to do. I don’t want +to be uncivil to him; but I don’t wish to see him again; and I have some +few little things to return to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you choose to send ’em by me, miss, and a note to tell him that +you wish to say no more to him, I’ll take it for you quite privately. +That would be the most straightforward way of letting him know your +mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Eustacia. “Come towards my house, and I +will bring it out to you.” +</p> + +<p> +She went on, and as the path was an infinitely small parting in the shaggy +locks of the heath, the reddleman followed exactly in her trail. She saw from a +distance that the captain was on the bank sweeping the horizon with his +telescope; and bidding Venn to wait where he stood she entered the house alone. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes she returned with a parcel and a note, and said, in placing them +in his hand, “Why are you so ready to take these for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you ask that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you think to serve Thomasin in some way by it. Are you as +anxious as ever to help on her marriage?” +</p> + +<p> +Venn was a little moved. “I would sooner have married her myself,” +he said in a low voice. “But what I feel is that if she cannot be happy +without him I will do my duty in helping her to get him, as a man ought.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia looked curiously at the singular man who spoke thus. What a strange +sort of love, to be entirely free from that quality of selfishness which is +frequently the chief constituent of the passion, and sometimes its only one! +The reddleman’s disinterestedness was so well deserving of respect that +it overshot respect by being barely comprehended; and she almost thought it +absurd. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we are both of one mind at last,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Venn gloomily. “But if you would tell me, +miss, why you take such an interest in her, I should be easier. It is so sudden +and strange.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia appeared at a loss. “I cannot tell you that, reddleman,” +she said coldly. +</p> + +<p> +Venn said no more. He pocketed the letter, and, bowing to Eustacia, went away. +</p> + +<p> +Rainbarrow had again become blended with night when Wildeve ascended the long +acclivity at its base. On his reaching the top a shape grew up from the earth +immediately behind him. It was that of Eustacia’s emissary. He slapped +Wildeve on the shoulder. The feverish young inn-keeper and ex-engineer started +like Satan at the touch of Ithuriel’s spear. +</p> + +<p> +“The meeting is always at eight o’clock, at this place,” said +Venn, “and here we are—we three.” +</p> + +<p> +“We three?” said Wildeve, looking quickly round. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; you, and I, and she. This is she.” He held up the letter and +parcel. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve took them wonderingly. “I don’t quite see what this +means,” he said. “How do you come here? There must be some +mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be cleared from your mind when you have read the letter. +Lanterns for one.” The reddleman struck a light, kindled an inch of +tallow-candle which he had brought, and sheltered it with his cap. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” said Wildeve, discerning by the candle-light an +obscure rubicundity of person in his companion. “You are the reddleman I +saw on the hill this morning—why, you are the man +who——” +</p> + +<p> +“Please read the letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had come from the other one I shouldn’t have been +surprised,” murmured Wildeve as he opened the letter and read. His face +grew serious. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“To Mr. W<small>ILDEVE</small>. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“After some thought I have decided once and for all that we must hold no +further communication. The more I consider the matter the more I am convinced +that there must be an end to our acquaintance. Had you been uniformly faithful +to me throughout these two years you might now have some ground for accusing me +of heartlessness; but if you calmly consider what I bore during the period of +your desertion, and how I passively put up with your courtship of another +without once interfering, you will, I think, own that I have a right to consult +my own feelings when you come back to me again. That these are not what they +were towards you may, perhaps, be a fault in me, but it is one which you can +scarcely reproach me for when you remember how you left me for Thomasin.<br /> + The little articles you gave me in the early part of our friendship are +returned by the bearer of this letter. They should rightly have been sent back +when I first heard of your engagement to her. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“E<small>USTACIA</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +By the time that Wildeve reached her name the blankness with which he had read +the first half of the letter intensified to mortification. “I am made a +great fool of, one way and another,” he said pettishly. “Do you +know what is in this letter?” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman hummed a tune. +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you answer me?” asked Wildeve warmly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ru-um-tum-tum,” sang the reddleman. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve stood looking on the ground beside Venn’s feet, till he allowed +his eyes to travel upwards over Diggory’s form, as illuminated by the +candle, to his head and face. “Ha-ha! Well, I suppose I deserve it, +considering how I have played with them both,” he said at last, as much +to himself as to Venn. “But of all the odd things that ever I knew, the +oddest is that you should so run counter to your own interests as to bring this +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My interests?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. ’Twas your interest not to do anything which would send +me courting Thomasin again, now she has accepted you—or something like +it. Mrs. Yeobright says you are to marry her. ’Tisn’t true, +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord! I heard of this before, but didn’t believe it. When did +she say so?” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve began humming as the reddleman had done. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe it now,” cried Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“Ru-um-tum-tum,” sang Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“O Lord—how we can imitate!” said Venn contemptuously. +“I’ll have this out. I’ll go straight to her.” +</p> + +<p> +Diggory withdrew with an emphatic step, Wildeve’s eye passing over his +form in withering derision, as if he were no more than a heath-cropper. When +the reddleman’s figure could no longer be seen, Wildeve himself descended +and plunged into the rayless hollow of the vale. +</p> + +<p> +To lose the two women—he who had been the well-beloved of both—was +too ironical an issue to be endured. He could only decently save himself by +Thomasin; and once he became her husband, Eustacia’s repentance, he +thought, would set in for a long and bitter term. It was no wonder that +Wildeve, ignorant of the new man at the back of the scene, should have supposed +Eustacia to be playing a part. To believe that the letter was not the result of +some momentary pique, to infer that she really gave him up to Thomasin, would +have required previous knowledge of her transfiguration by that man’s +influence. Who was to know that she had grown generous in the greediness of a +new passion, that in coveting one cousin she was dealing liberally with +another, that in her eagerness to appropriate she gave way? +</p> + +<p> +Full of this resolve to marry in haste, and wring the heart of the proud girl, +Wildeve went his way. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Diggory Venn had returned to his van, where he stood looking +thoughtfully into the stove. A new vista was opened up to him. But, however +promising Mrs. Yeobright’s views of him might be as a candidate for her +niece’s hand, one condition was indispensable to the favour of Thomasin +herself, and that was a renunciation of his present wild mode of life. In this +he saw little difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +He could not afford to wait till the next day before seeing Thomasin and +detailing his plan. He speedily plunged himself into toilet operations, pulled +a suit of cloth clothes from a box, and in about twenty minutes stood before +the van-lantern as a reddleman in nothing but his face, the vermilion shades of +which were not to be removed in a day. Closing the door and fastening it with a +padlock, Venn set off towards Blooms-End. +</p> + +<p> +He had reached the white palings and laid his hand upon the gate when the door +of the house opened, and quickly closed again. A female form had glided in. At +the same time a man, who had seemingly been standing with the woman in the +porch, came forward from the house till he was face to face with Venn. It was +Wildeve again. +</p> + +<p> +“Man alive, you’ve been quick at it,” said Diggory +sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +“And you slow, as you will find,” said Wildeve. “And,” +lowering his voice, “you may as well go back again now. I’ve +claimed her, and got her. Good night, reddleman!” Thereupon Wildeve +walked away. +</p> + +<p> +Venn’s heart sank within him, though it had not risen unduly high. He +stood leaning over the palings in an indecisive mood for nearly a quarter of an +hour. Then he went up the garden path, knocked, and asked for Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of requesting him to enter she came to the porch. A discourse was +carried on between them in low measured tones for the space of ten minutes or +more. At the end of the time Mrs. Yeobright went in, and Venn sadly retraced +his steps into the heath. When he had again regained his van he lit the +lantern, and with an apathetic face at once began to pull off his best clothes, +till in the course of a few minutes he reappeared as the confirmed and +irretrievable reddleman that he had seemed before. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>VIII.<br /> +Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart</h2> + +<p> +On that evening the interior of Blooms-End, though cosy and comfortable, had +been rather silent. Clym Yeobright was not at home. Since the Christmas party +he had gone on a few days’ visit to a friend about ten miles off. +</p> + +<p> +The shadowy form seen by Venn to part from Wildeve in the porch, and quickly +withdraw into the house, was Thomasin’s. On entering she threw down a +cloak which had been carelessly wrapped round her, and came forward to the +light, where Mrs. Yeobright sat at her work-table, drawn up within the settle, +so that part of it projected into the chimney-corner. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like your going out after dark alone, Tamsin,” said +her aunt quietly, without looking up from her work. +</p> + +<p> +“I have only been just outside the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” inquired Mrs. Yeobright, struck by a change in the tone of +Thomasin’s voice, and observing her. Thomasin’s cheek was flushed +to a pitch far beyond that which it had reached before her troubles, and her +eyes glittered. +</p> + +<p> +“It was <i>he</i> who knocked,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought as much.” +</p> + +<p> +“He wishes the marriage to be at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! What—is he anxious?” Mrs. Yeobright directed a +searching look upon her niece. “Why did not Mr. Wildeve come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did not wish to. You are not friends with him, he says. He would like +the wedding to be the day after tomorrow, quite privately; at the church of his +parish—not at ours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! And what did you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I agreed to it,” Thomasin answered firmly. “I am a practical +woman now. I don’t believe in hearts at all. I would marry him under any +circumstances since—since Clym’s letter.” +</p> + +<p> +A letter was lying on Mrs. Yeobright’s work-basket, and at +Thomasin’s words her aunt reopened it, and silently read for the tenth +time that day:— +</p> + +<p> +“What is the meaning of this silly story that people are circulating +about Thomasin and Mr. Wildeve? I should call such a scandal humiliating if +there was the least chance of its being true. How could such a gross falsehood +have arisen? It is said that one should go abroad to hear news of home, and I +appear to have done it. Of course I contradict the tale everywhere; but it is +very vexing, and I wonder how it could have originated. It is too ridiculous +that such a girl as Thomasin could so mortify us as to get jilted on the +wedding day. What has she done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mrs. Yeobright said sadly, putting down the letter. +“If you think you can marry him, do so. And since Mr. Wildeve wishes it +to be unceremonious, let it be that too. I can do nothing. It is all in your +own hands now. My power over your welfare came to an end when you left this +house to go with him to Anglebury.” She continued, half in bitterness, +“I may almost ask, why do you consult me in the matter at all? If you had +gone and married him without saying a word to me, I could hardly have been +angry—simply because, poor girl, you can’t do a better +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say that and dishearten me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right—I will not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not plead for him, Aunt. Human nature is weak, and I am not a blind +woman to insist that he is perfect. I did think so, but I don’t now. But +I know my course, and you know that I know it. I hope for the best.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so do I, and we will both continue to,” said Mrs. Yeobright, +rising and kissing her. “Then the wedding, if it comes off, will be on +the morning of the very day Clym comes home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I decided that it ought to be over before he came. After that you +can look him in the face, and so can I. Our concealments will matter +nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright moved her head in thoughtful assent, and presently said, +“Do you wish me to give you away? I am willing to undertake that, you +know, if you wish, as I was last time. After once forbidding the banns I think +I can do no less.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I will ask you to come,” said Thomasin +reluctantly, but with decision. “It would be unpleasant, I am almost +sure. Better let there be only strangers present, and none of my relations at +all. I would rather have it so. I do not wish to do anything which may touch +your credit, and I feel that I should be uncomfortable if you were there, after +what has passed. I am only your niece, and there is no necessity why you should +concern yourself more about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he has beaten us,” her aunt said. “It really seems as +if he had been playing with you in this way in revenge for my humbling him as I +did by standing up against him at first.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, Aunt,” murmured Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +They said no more on the subject then. Diggory Venn’s knock came soon +after; and Mrs. Yeobright, on returning from her interview with him in the +porch, carelessly observed, “Another lover has come to ask for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that queer young man Venn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Asks to pay his addresses to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and I told him he was too late.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin looked silently into the candle-flame. “Poor Diggory!” she +said, and then aroused herself to other things. +</p> + +<p> +The next day was passed in mere mechanical deeds of preparation, both the women +being anxious to immerse themselves in these to escape the emotional aspect of +the situation. Some wearing apparel and other articles were collected anew for +Thomasin, and remarks on domestic details were frequently made, so as to +obscure any inner misgivings about her future as Wildeve’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +The appointed morning came. The arrangement with Wildeve was that he should +meet her at the church to guard against any unpleasant curiosity which might +have affected them had they been seen walking off together in the usual country +way. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt and niece stood together in the bedroom where the bride was dressing. The +sun, where it could catch it, made a mirror of Thomasin’s hair, which she +always wore braided. It was braided according to a calendar system—the +more important the day the more numerous the strands in the braid. On ordinary +working-days she braided it in threes; on ordinary Sundays in fours; at +Maypolings, gipsyings, and the like, she braided it in fives. Years ago she had +said that when she married she would braid it in sevens. She had braided it in +sevens today. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking that I will wear my blue silk after all,” she +said. “It is my wedding day, even though there may be something sad about +the time. I mean,” she added, anxious to correct any wrong impression, +“not sad in itself, but in its having had great disappointment and +trouble before it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright breathed in a way which might have been called a sigh. “I +almost wish Clym had been at home,” she said. “Of course you chose +the time because of his absence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Partly. I have felt that I acted unfairly to him in not telling him all; +but, as it was done not to grieve him, I thought I would carry out the plan to +its end, and tell the whole story when the sky was clear.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a practical little woman,” said Mrs. Yeobright, smiling. +“I wish you and he—no, I don’t wish anything. There, it is +nine o’clock,” she interrupted, hearing a whizz and a dinging +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I told Damon I would leave at nine,” said Thomasin, hastening out +of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Her aunt followed. When Thomasin was going up the little walk from the door to +the wicket-gate, Mrs. Yeobright looked reluctantly at her, and said, “It +is a shame to let you go alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is necessary,” said Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” added her aunt with forced cheerfulness, “I +shall call upon you this afternoon, and bring the cake with me. If Clym has +returned by that time he will perhaps come too. I wish to show Mr. Wildeve that +I bear him no ill-will. Let the past be forgotten. Well, God bless you! There, +I don’t believe in old superstitions, but I’ll do it.” She +threw a slipper at the retreating figure of the girl, who turned, smiled, and +went on again. +</p> + +<p> +A few steps further, and she looked back. “Did you call me, Aunt?” +she tremulously inquired. “Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +Moved by an uncontrollable feeling as she looked upon Mrs. Yeobright’s +worn, wet face, she ran back, when her aunt came forward, and they met again. +“O—Tamsie,” said the elder, weeping, “I don’t +like to let you go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I—I am—” Thomasin began, giving way likewise. But, +quelling her grief, she said “Good-bye!” again and went on. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mrs. Yeobright saw a little figure wending its way between the scratching +furze-bushes, and diminishing far up the valley—a pale-blue spot in a +vast field of neutral brown, solitary and undefended except by the power of her +own hope. +</p> + +<p> +But the worst feature in the case was one which did not appear in the +landscape; it was the man. +</p> + +<p> +The hour chosen for the ceremony by Thomasin and Wildeve had been so timed as +to enable her to escape the awkwardness of meeting her cousin Clym, who was +returning the same morning. To own to the partial truth of what he had heard +would be distressing as long as the humiliating position resulting from the +event was unimproved. It was only after a second and successful journey to the +altar that she could lift up her head and prove the failure of the first +attempt a pure accident. +</p> + +<p> +She had not been gone from Blooms-End more than half an hour when Yeobright +came by the meads from the other direction and entered the house. +</p> + +<p> +“I had an early breakfast,” he said to his mother after greeting +her. “Now I could eat a little more.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down to the repeated meal, and he went on in a low, anxious voice, +apparently imagining that Thomasin had not yet come downstairs, +“What’s this I have heard about Thomasin and Mr. Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true in many points,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly; +“but it is all right now, I hope.” She looked at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“True?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin is gone to him today.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym pushed away his breakfast. “Then there is a scandal of some sort, +and that’s what’s the matter with Thomasin. Was it this that made +her ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Not a scandal—a misfortune. I will tell you all about it, +Clym. You must not be angry, but you must listen, and you’ll find that +what we have done has been done for the best.” +</p> + +<p> +She then told him the circumstances. All that he had known of the affair before +he returned from Paris was that there had existed an attachment between +Thomasin and Wildeve, which his mother had at first discountenanced, but had +since, owing to the arguments of Thomasin, looked upon in a little more +favourable light. When she, therefore, proceeded to explain all he was greatly +surprised and troubled. +</p> + +<p> +“And she determined that the wedding should be over before you came +back,” said Mrs. Yeobright, “that there might be no chance of her +meeting you, and having a very painful time of it. That’s why she has +gone to him; they have arranged to be married this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I can’t understand it,” said Yeobright, rising. +“’Tis so unlike her. I can see why you did not write to me after +her unfortunate return home. But why didn’t you let me know when the +wedding was going to be—the first time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I felt vexed with her just then. She seemed to me to be obstinate; +and when I found that you were nothing in her mind I vowed that she should be +nothing in yours. I felt that she was only my niece after all; I told her she +might marry, but that I should take no interest in it, and should not bother +you about it either.” +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t have been bothering me. Mother, you did wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought it might disturb you in your business, and that you might +throw up your situation, or injure your prospects in some way because of it, so +I said nothing. Of course, if they had married at that time in a proper manner, +I should have told you at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tamsin actually being married while we are sitting here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Unless some accident happens again, as it did the first time. It +may, considering he’s the same man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and I believe it will. Was it right to let her go? Suppose Wildeve +is really a bad fellow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he won’t come, and she’ll come home again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should have looked more into it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless to say that,” his mother answered with an impatient +look of sorrow. “You don’t know how bad it has been here with us +all these weeks, Clym. You don’t know what a mortification anything of +that sort is to a woman. You don’t know the sleepless nights we’ve +had in this house, and the almost bitter words that have passed between us +since that Fifth of November. I hope never to pass seven such weeks again. +Tamsin has not gone outside the door, and I have been ashamed to look anybody +in the face; and now you blame me for letting her do the only thing that can be +done to set that trouble straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said slowly. “Upon the whole I don’t blame +you. But just consider how sudden it seems to me. Here was I, knowing nothing; +and then I am told all at once that Tamsie is gone to be married. Well, I +suppose there was nothing better to do. Do you know, Mother,” he +continued after a moment or two, looking suddenly interested in his own past +history, “I once thought of Tamsin as a sweetheart? Yes, I did. How odd +boys are! And when I came home and saw her this time she seemed so much more +affectionate than usual, that I was quite reminded of those days, particularly +on the night of the party, when she was unwell. We had the party just the +same—was not that rather cruel to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“It made no difference. I had arranged to give one, and it was not worth +while to make more gloom than necessary. To begin by shutting ourselves up and +telling you of Tamsin’s misfortunes would have been a poor sort of +welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym remained thinking. “I almost wish you had not had that party,” +he said; “and for other reasons. But I will tell you in a day or two. We +must think of Tamsin now.” +</p> + +<p> +They lapsed into silence. “I’ll tell you what,” said +Yeobright again, in a tone which showed some slumbering feeling still. “I +don’t think it kind to Tamsin to let her be married like this, and +neither of us there to keep up her spirits or care a bit about her. She +hasn’t disgraced herself, or done anything to deserve that. It is bad +enough that the wedding should be so hurried and unceremonious, without our +keeping away from it in addition. Upon my soul, ’tis almost a shame. +I’ll go.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is over by this time,” said his mother with a sigh; +“unless they were late, or he—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall be soon enough to see them come out. I don’t quite +like your keeping me in ignorance, Mother, after all. Really, I half hope he +has failed to meet her!” +</p> + +<p> +“And ruined her character?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense—that wouldn’t ruin Thomasin.” +</p> + +<p> +He took up his hat and hastily left the house. Mrs. Yeobright looked rather +unhappy, and sat still, deep in thought. But she was not long left alone. A few +minutes later Clym came back again, and in his company came Diggory Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“I find there isn’t time for me to get there,” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she married?” Mrs. Yeobright inquired, turning to the reddleman +a face in which a strange strife of wishes, for and against, was apparent. +</p> + +<p> +Venn bowed. “She is, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“How strange it sounds,” murmured Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“And he didn’t disappoint her this time?” said Mrs. +Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“He did not. And there is now no slight on her name. I was hastening +ath’art to tell you at once, as I saw you were not there.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came you to be there? How did you know it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been in that neighbourhood for some time, and I saw them go +in,” said the reddleman. “Wildeve came up to the door, punctual as +the clock. I didn’t expect it of him.” He did not add, as he might +have added, that how he came to be in that neighbourhood was not by accident; +that, since Wildeve’s resumption of his right to Thomasin, Venn, with the +thoroughness which was part of his character, had determined to see the end of +the episode. +</p> + +<p> +“Who was there?” said Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody hardly. I stood right out of the way, and she did not see +me.” The reddleman spoke huskily, and looked into the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Who gave her away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Vye.” +</p> + +<p> +“How very remarkable! Miss Vye! It is to be considered an honour, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s Miss Vye?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Vye’s granddaughter, of Mistover Knap.” +</p> + +<p> +“A proud girl from Budmouth,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “One not +much to my liking. People say she’s a witch, but of course that’s +absurd.” +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman kept to himself his acquaintance with that fair personage, and +also that Eustacia was there because he went to fetch her, in accordance with a +promise he had given as soon as he learnt that the marriage was to take place. +He merely said, in continuation of the story—— +</p> + +<p> +“I was sitting on the churchyard wall when they came up, one from one +way, the other from the other; and Miss Vye was walking thereabouts, looking at +the headstones. As soon as they had gone in I went to the door, feeling I +should like to see it, as I knew her so well. I pulled off my boots because +they were so noisy, and went up into the gallery. I saw then that the parson +and clerk were already there.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came Miss Vye to have anything to do with it, if she was only on a +walk that way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because there was nobody else. She had gone into the church just before +me, not into the gallery. The parson looked round before beginning, and as she +was the only one near he beckoned to her, and she went up to the rails. After +that, when it came to signing the book, she pushed up her veil and signed; and +Tamsin seemed to thank her for her kindness.” The reddleman told the tale +thoughtfully for there lingered upon his vision the changing colour of Wildeve, +when Eustacia lifted the thick veil which had concealed her from recognition +and looked calmly into his face. “And then,” said Diggory sadly, +“I came away, for her history as Tamsin Yeobright was over.” +</p> + +<p> +“I offered to go,” said Mrs. Yeobright regretfully. “But she +said it was not necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is no matter,” said the reddleman. “The thing is +done at last as it was meant to be at first, and God send her happiness. Now +I’ll wish you good morning.” +</p> + +<p> +He placed his cap on his head and went out. +</p> + +<p> +From that instant of leaving Mrs. Yeobright’s door, the reddleman was +seen no more in or about Egdon Heath for a space of many months. He vanished +entirely. The nook among the brambles where his van had been standing was as +vacant as ever the next morning, and scarcely a sign remained to show that he +had been there, excepting a few straws, and a little redness on the turf, which +was washed away by the next storm of rain. +</p> + +<p> +The report that Diggory had brought of the wedding, correct as far as it went, +was deficient in one significant particular, which had escaped him through his +being at some distance back in the church. When Thomasin was tremblingly +engaged in signing her name Wildeve had flung towards Eustacia a glance that +said plainly, “I have punished you now.” She had replied in a low +tone—and he little thought how truly—“You mistake; it gives +me sincerest pleasure to see her your wife today.” +</p> +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book03"></a>BOOK THIRD—THE FASCINATION</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>I.<br /> +“My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is”</h2> + +<p> +In Clym Yeobright’s face could be dimly seen the typical countenance of +the future. Should there be a classic period to art hereafter, its Pheidias may +produce such faces. The view of life as a thing to be put up with, replacing +that zest for existence which was so intense in early civilizations, must +ultimately enter so thoroughly into the constitution of the advanced races that +its facial expression will become accepted as a new artistic departure. People +already feel that a man who lives without disturbing a curve of feature, or +setting a mark of mental concern anywhere upon himself, is too far removed from +modern perceptiveness to be a modern type. Physically beautiful men—the +glory of the race when it was young—are almost an anachronism now; and we +may wonder whether, at some time or other, physically beautiful women may not +be an anachronism likewise. +</p> + +<p> +The truth seems to be that a long line of disillusive centuries has permanently +displaced the Hellenic idea of life, or whatever it may be called. What the +Greeks only suspected we know well; what their Æschylus imagined our nursery +children feel. That old-fashioned revelling in the general situation grows less +and less possible as we uncover the defects of natural laws, and see the +quandary that man is in by their operation. +</p> + +<p> +The lineaments which will get embodied in ideals based upon this new +recognition will probably be akin to those of Yeobright. The observer’s +eye was arrested, not by his face as a picture, but by his face as a page; not +by what it was, but by what it recorded. His features were attractive in the +light of symbols, as sounds intrinsically common become attractive in language, +and as shapes intrinsically simple become interesting in writing. +</p> + +<p> +He had been a lad of whom something was expected. Beyond this all had been +chaos. That he would be successful in an original way, or that he would go to +the dogs in an original way, seemed equally probable. The only absolute +certainty about him was that he would not stand still in the circumstances amid +which he was born. +</p> + +<p> +Hence, when his name was casually mentioned by neighbouring yeomen, the +listener said, “Ah, Clym Yeobright—what is he doing now?” +When the instinctive question about a person is, What is he doing? it is felt +that he will be found to be, like most of us, doing nothing in particular. +There is an indefinite sense that he must be invading some region of +singularity, good or bad. The devout hope is that he is doing well. The secret +faith is that he is making a mess of it. Half a dozen comfortable market-men, +who were habitual callers at the Quiet Woman as they passed by in their carts, +were partial to the topic. In fact, though they were not Egdon men, they could +hardly avoid it while they sucked their long clay tubes and regarded the heath +through the window. Clym had been so inwoven with the heath in his boyhood that +hardly anybody could look upon it without thinking of him. So the subject +recurred: if he were making a fortune and a name, so much the better for him; +if he were making a tragical figure in the world, so much the better for a +narrative. +</p> + +<p> +The fact was that Yeobright’s fame had spread to an awkward extent before +he left home. “It is bad when your fame outruns your means,” said +the Spanish Jesuit Gracian. At the age of six he had asked a Scripture riddle: +“Who was the first man known to wear breeches?” and applause had +resounded from the very verge of the heath. At seven he painted the Battle of +Waterloo with tiger-lily pollen and black-currant juice, in the absence of +water-colours. By the time he reached twelve he had in this manner been heard +of as artist and scholar for at least two miles round. An individual whose fame +spreads three or four thousand yards in the time taken by the fame of others +similarly situated to travel six or eight hundred, must of necessity have +something in him. Possibly Clym’s fame, like Homer’s, owed +something to the accidents of his situation; nevertheless famous he was. +</p> + +<p> +He grew up and was helped out in life. That waggery of fate which started Clive +as a writing clerk, Gay as a linen-draper, Keats as a surgeon, and a thousand +others in a thousand other odd ways, banished the wild and ascetic heath lad to +a trade whose sole concern was with the especial symbols of self-indulgence and +vainglory. +</p> + +<p> +The details of this choice of a business for him it is not necessary to give. +At the death of his father a neighbouring gentleman had kindly undertaken to +give the boy a start, and this assumed the form of sending him to Budmouth. +Yeobright did not wish to go there, but it was the only feasible opening. +Thence he went to London; and thence, shortly after, to Paris, where he had +remained till now. +</p> + +<p> +Something being expected of him, he had not been at home many days before a +great curiosity as to why he stayed on so long began to arise in the heath. The +natural term of a holiday had passed, yet he still remained. On the Sunday +morning following the week of Thomasin’s marriage a discussion on this +subject was in progress at a hair-cutting before Fairway’s house. Here +the local barbering was always done at this hour on this day, to be followed by +the great Sunday wash of the inhabitants at noon, which in its turn was +followed by the great Sunday dressing an hour later. On Egdon Heath Sunday +proper did not begin till dinner-time, and even then it was a somewhat battered +specimen of the day. +</p> + +<p> +These Sunday-morning hair-cuttings were performed by Fairway; the victim +sitting on a chopping-block in front of the house, without a coat, and the +neighbours gossiping around, idly observing the locks of hair as they rose upon +the wind after the snip, and flew away out of sight to the four quarters of the +heavens. Summer and winter the scene was the same, unless the wind were more +than usually blusterous, when the stool was shifted a few feet round the +corner. To complain of cold in sitting out of doors, hatless and coatless, +while Fairway told true stories between the cuts of the scissors, would have +been to pronounce yourself no man at once. To flinch, exclaim, or move a muscle +of the face at the small stabs under the ear received from those instruments, +or at scarifications of the neck by the comb, would have been thought a gross +breach of good manners, considering that Fairway did it all for nothing. A +bleeding about the poll on Sunday afternoons was amply accounted for by the +explanation. “I have had my hair cut, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +The conversation on Yeobright had been started by a distant view of the young +man rambling leisurely across the heath before them. +</p> + +<p> +“A man who is doing well elsewhere wouldn’t bide here two or three +weeks for nothing,” said Fairway. “He’s got some project in +’s head—depend upon that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’a can’t keep a diment shop here,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see why he should have had them two heavy boxes home if he +had not been going to bide; and what there is for him to do here the Lord in +heaven knows.” +</p> + +<p> +Before many more surmises could be indulged in Yeobright had come near; and +seeing the hair-cutting group he turned aside to join them. Marching up, and +looking critically at their faces for a moment, he said, without introduction, +“Now, folks, let me guess what you have been talking about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure, if you will,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“About me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, it is a thing I shouldn’t have dreamed of doing, +otherwise,” said Fairway in a tone of integrity; “but since you +have named it, Master Yeobright, I’ll own that we was talking about +’ee. We were wondering what could keep you home here mollyhorning about +when you have made such a world-wide name for yourself in the nick-nack +trade—now, that’s the truth o’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you,” said Yeobright with unexpected earnestness. +“I am not sorry to have the opportunity. I’ve come home because, +all things considered, I can be a trifle less useless here than anywhere else. +But I have only lately found this out. When I first got away from home I +thought this place was not worth troubling about. I thought our life here was +contemptible. To oil your boots instead of blacking them, to dust your coat +with a switch instead of a brush—was there ever anything more ridiculous? +I said.” +</p> + +<p> +“So ’tis; so ’tis!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—you are wrong; it isn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your pardon, we thought that was your maning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as my views changed my course became very depressing. I found that +I was trying to be like people who had hardly anything in common with myself. I +was endeavouring to put off one sort of life for another sort of life, which +was not better than the life I had known before. It was simply +different.” +</p> + +<p> +“True; a sight different,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Paris must be a taking place,” said Humphrey. “Grand +shop-winders, trumpets, and drums; and here be we out of doors in all winds and +weathers—” +</p> + +<p> +“But you mistake me,” pleaded Clym. “All this was very +depressing. But not so depressing as something I next perceived—that my +business was the idlest, vainest, most effeminate business that ever a man +could be put to. That decided me—I would give it up and try to follow +some rational occupation among the people I knew best, and to whom I could be +of most use. I have come home; and this is how I mean to carry out my plan. I +shall keep a school as near to Egdon as possible, so as to be able to walk over +here and have a night-school in my mother’s house. But I must study a +little at first, to get properly qualified. Now, neighbours, I must go.” +</p> + +<p> +And Clym resumed his walk across the heath. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll never carry it out in the world,” said Fairway. +“In a few weeks he’ll learn to see things otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis good-hearted of the young man,” said another. +“But, for my part, I think he had better mind his business.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>II.<br /> +The New Course Causes Disappointment</h2> + +<p> +Yeobright loved his kind. He had a conviction that the want of most men was +knowledge of a sort which brings wisdom rather than affluence. He wished to +raise the class at the expense of individuals rather than individuals at the +expense of the class. What was more, he was ready at once to be the first unit +sacrificed. +</p> + +<p> +In passing from the bucolic to the intellectual life the intermediate stages +are usually two at least, frequently many more; and one of those stages is +almost sure to be worldly advanced. We can hardly imagine bucolic placidity +quickening to intellectual aims without imagining social aims as the +transitional phase. Yeobright’s local peculiarity was that in striving at +high thinking he still cleaved to plain living—nay, wild and meagre +living in many respects, and brotherliness with clowns. +</p> + +<p> +He was a John the Baptist who took ennoblement rather than repentance for his +text. Mentally he was in a provincial future, that is, he was in many points +abreast with the central town thinkers of his date. Much of this development he +may have owed to his studious life in Paris, where he had become acquainted +with ethical systems popular at the time. +</p> + +<p> +In consequence of this relatively advanced position, Yeobright might have been +called unfortunate. The rural world was not ripe for him. A man should be only +partially before his time—to be completely to the vanward in aspirations +is fatal to fame. Had Philip’s warlike son been intellectually so far +ahead as to have attempted civilization without bloodshed, he would have been +twice the godlike hero that he seemed, but nobody would have heard of an +Alexander. +</p> + +<p> +In the interests of renown the forwardness should lie chiefly in the capacity +to handle things. Successful propagandists have succeeded because the doctrine +they bring into form is that which their listeners have for some time felt +without being able to shape. A man who advocates æsthetic effort and +deprecates social effort is only likely to be understood by a class to which +social effort has become a stale matter. To argue upon the possibility of +culture before luxury to the bucolic world may be to argue truly, but it is an +attempt to disturb a sequence to which humanity has been long accustomed. +Yeobright preaching to the Egdon eremites that they might rise to a serene +comprehensiveness without going through the process of enriching themselves was +not unlike arguing to ancient Chaldeans that in ascending from earth to the +pure empyrean it was not necessary to pass first into the intervening heaven of +ether. +</p> + +<p> +Was Yeobright’s mind well-proportioned? No. A well proportioned mind is +one which shows no particular bias; one of which we may safely say that it will +never cause its owner to be confined as a madman, tortured as a heretic, or +crucified as a blasphemer. Also, on the other hand, that it will never cause +him to be applauded as a prophet, revered as a priest, or exalted as a king. +Its usual blessings are happiness and mediocrity. It produces the poetry of +Rogers, the paintings of West, the statecraft of North, the spiritual guidance +of Tomline; enabling its possessors to find their way to wealth, to wind up +well, to step with dignity off the stage, to die comfortably in their beds, and +to get the decent monument which, in many cases, they deserve. It never would +have allowed Yeobright to do such a ridiculous thing as throw up his business +to benefit his fellow-creatures. +</p> + +<p> +He walked along towards home without attending to paths. If anyone knew the +heath well it was Clym. He was permeated with its scenes, with its substance, +and with its odours. He might be said to be its product. His eyes had first +opened thereon; with its appearance all the first images of his memory were +mingled, his estimate of life had been coloured by it: his toys had been the +flint knives and arrow-heads which he found there, wondering why stones should +“grow” to such odd shapes; his flowers, the purple bells and yellow +furze: his animal kingdom, the snakes and croppers; his society, its human +haunters. Take all the varying hates felt by Eustacia Vye towards the heath, +and translate them into loves, and you have the heart of Clym. He gazed upon +the wide prospect as he walked, and was glad. +</p> + +<p> +To many persons this Egdon was a place which had slipped out of its century +generations ago, to intrude as an uncouth object into this. It was an obsolete +thing, and few cared to study it. How could this be otherwise in the days of +square fields, plashed hedges, and meadows watered on a plan so rectangular +that on a fine day they looked like silver gridirons? The farmer, in his ride, +who could smile at artificial grasses, look with solicitude at the coming corn, +and sigh with sadness at the fly-eaten turnips, bestowed upon the distant +upland of heath nothing better than a frown. But as for Yeobright, when he +looked from the heights on his way he could not help indulging in a barbarous +satisfaction at observing that, in some of the attempts at reclamation from the +waste, tillage, after holding on for a year or two, had receded again in +despair, the ferns and furze-tufts stubbornly reasserting themselves. +</p> + +<p> +He descended into the valley, and soon reached his home at Blooms-End. His +mother was snipping dead leaves from the window-plants. She looked up at him as +if she did not understand the meaning of his long stay with her; her face had +worn that look for several days. He could perceive that the curiosity which had +been shown by the hair-cutting group amounted in his mother to concern. But she +had asked no question with her lips, even when the arrival of his trunk +suggested that he was not going to leave her soon. Her silence besought an +explanation of him more loudly than words. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going back to Paris again, Mother,” he said. “At +least, in my old capacity. I have given up the business.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright turned in pained surprise. “I thought something was amiss, +because of the boxes. I wonder you did not tell me sooner.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to have done it. But I have been in doubt whether you would be +pleased with my plan. I was not quite clear on a few points myself. I am going +to take an entirely new course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am astonished, Clym. How can you want to do better than you’ve +been doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very easily. But I shall not do better in the way you mean; I suppose it +will be called doing worse. But I hate that business of mine, and I want to do +some worthy thing before I die. As a schoolmaster I think to do it—a +school-master to the poor and ignorant, to teach them what nobody else +will.” +</p> + +<p> +“After all the trouble that has been taken to give you a start, and when +there is nothing to do but to keep straight on towards affluence, you say you +will be a poor man’s schoolmaster. Your fancies will be your ruin, +Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright spoke calmly, but the force of feeling behind the words was but +too apparent to one who knew her as well as her son did. He did not answer. +There was in his face that hopelessness of being understood which comes when +the objector is constitutionally beyond the reach of a logic that, even under +favouring conditions, is almost too coarse a vehicle for the subtlety of the +argument. +</p> + +<p> +No more was said on the subject till the end of dinner. His mother then began, +as if there had been no interval since the morning. “It disturbs me, +Clym, to find that you have come home with such thoughts as those. I +hadn’t the least idea that you meant to go backward in the world by your +own free choice. Of course, I have always supposed you were going to push +straight on, as other men do—all who deserve the name—when they +have been put in a good way of doing well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help it,” said Clym, in a troubled tone. “Mother, I +hate the flashy business. Talk about men who deserve the name, can any man +deserving the name waste his time in that effeminate way, when he sees half the +world going to ruin for want of somebody to buckle to and teach them how to +breast the misery they are born to? I get up every morning and see the whole +creation groaning and travailing in pain, as St. Paul says, and yet there am I, +trafficking in glittering splendours with wealthy women and titled libertines, +and pandering to the meanest vanities—I, who have health and strength +enough for anything. I have been troubled in my mind about it all the year, and +the end is that I cannot do it any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t you do it as well as others?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, except that there are many things other people care +for which I don’t; and that’s partly why I think I ought to do +this. For one thing, my body does not require much of me. I cannot enjoy +delicacies; good things are wasted upon me. Well, I ought to turn that defect +to advantage, and by being able to do without what other people require I can +spend what such things cost upon anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, Yeobright, having inherited some of these very instincts from the woman +before him, could not fail to awaken a reciprocity in her through her feelings, +if not by arguments, disguise it as she might for his good. She spoke with less +assurance. “And yet you might have been a wealthy man if you had only +persevered. Manager to that large diamond establishment—what better can a +man wish for? What a post of trust and respect! I suppose you will be like your +father; like him, you are getting weary of doing well.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said her son, “I am not weary of that, though I am +weary of what you mean by it. Mother, what is doing well?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright was far too thoughtful a woman to be content with ready +definitions, and, like the “What is wisdom?” of Plato’s +Socrates, and the “What is truth?” of Pontius Pilate, +Yeobright’s burning question received no answer. +</p> + +<p> +The silence was broken by the clash of the garden gate, a tap at the door, and +its opening. Christian Cantle appeared in the room in his Sunday clothes. +</p> + +<p> +It was the custom on Egdon to begin the preface to a story before absolutely +entering the house, so as to be well in for the body of the narrative by the +time visitor and visited stood face to face. Christian had been saying to them +while the door was leaving its latch, “To think that I, who go from home +but once in a while, and hardly then, should have been there this +morning!” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis news you have brought us, then, Christian?” said Mrs. +Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure, about a witch, and ye must overlook my time o’ day; for, +says I, ‘I must go and tell ’em, though they won’t have half +done dinner.’ I assure ye it made me shake like a driven leaf. Do ye +think any harm will come o’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—what?” +</p> + +<p> +“This morning at church we was all standing up, and the pa’son +said, ‘Let us pray.’ ‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘one may +as well kneel as stand’; so down I went; and, more than that, all the +rest were as willing to oblige the man as I. We hadn’t been hard at it +for more than a minute when a most terrible screech sounded through church, as +if somebody had just gied up their heart’s blood. All the folk jumped up +and then we found that Susan Nunsuch had pricked Miss Vye with a long +stocking-needle, as she had threatened to do as soon as ever she could get the +young lady to church, where she don’t come very often. She’ve +waited for this chance for weeks, so as to draw her blood and put an end to the +bewitching of Susan’s children that has been carried on so long. Sue +followed her into church, sat next to her, and as soon as she could find a +chance in went the stocking-needle into my lady’s arm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heaven, how horrid!” said Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Sue pricked her that deep that the maid fainted away; and as I was +afeard there might be some tumult among us, I got behind the bass viol and +didn’t see no more. But they carried her out into the air, ’tis +said; but when they looked round for Sue she was gone. What a scream that girl +gied, poor thing! There were the pa’son in his surplice holding up his +hand and saying, ‘Sit down, my good people, sit down!’ But the +deuce a bit would they sit down. O, and what d’ye think I found out, Mrs. +Yeobright? The pa’son wears a suit of clothes under his surplice!—I +could see his black sleeves when he held up his arm.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a cruel thing,” said Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“The nation ought to look into it,” said Christian. +“Here’s Humphrey coming, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +In came Humphrey. “Well, have ye heard the news? But I see you have. +’Tis a very strange thing that whenever one of Egdon folk goes to church +some rum job or other is sure to be doing. The last time one of us was there +was when neighbour Fairway went in the fall; and that was the day you forbad +the banns, Mrs. Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has this cruelly treated girl been able to walk home?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“They say she got better, and went home very well. And now I’ve +told it I must be moving homeward myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” said Humphrey. “Truly now we shall see if +there’s anything in what folks say about her.” +</p> + +<p> +When they were gone into the heath again Yeobright said quietly to his mother, +“Do you think I have turned teacher too soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is right that there should be schoolmasters, and missionaries, and +all such men,” she replied. “But it is right, too, that I should +try to lift you out of this life into something richer, and that you should not +come back again, and be as if I had not tried at all.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Later in the day Sam, the turf-cutter, entered. “I’ve come +a-borrowing, Mrs. Yeobright. I suppose you have heard what’s been +happening to the beauty on the hill?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sam: half a dozen have been telling us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beauty?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, tolerably well-favoured,” Sam replied. “Lord! all the +country owns that ’tis one of the strangest things in the world that such +a woman should have come to live up there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dark or fair?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, though I’ve seen her twenty times, that’s a thing I +cannot call to mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Darker than Tamsin,” murmured Mrs. Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“A woman who seems to care for nothing at all, as you may say.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is melancholy, then?” inquired Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“She mopes about by herself, and don’t mix in with the +people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she a young lady inclined for adventures?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to my knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doesn’t join in with the lads in their games, to get some sort of +excitement in this lonely place?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mumming, for instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Her notions be different. I should rather say her thoughts were far +away from here, with lords and ladies she’ll never know, and mansions +she’ll never see again.” +</p> + +<p> +Observing that Clym appeared singularly interested Mrs. Yeobright said rather +uneasily to Sam, “You see more in her than most of us do. Miss Vye is to +my mind too idle to be charming. I have never heard that she is of any use to +herself or to other people. Good girls don’t get treated as witches even +on Egdon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense—that proves nothing either way,” said Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, of course I don’t understand such niceties,” said Sam, +withdrawing from a possibly unpleasant argument; “and what she is we must +wait for time to tell us. The business that I have really called about is this, +to borrow the longest and strongest rope you have. The captain’s bucket +has dropped into the well, and they are in want of water; and as all the chaps +are at home today we think we can get it out for him. We have three cart-ropes +already, but they won’t reach to the bottom.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright told him that he might have whatever ropes he could find in the +outhouse, and Sam went out to search. When he passed by the door Clym joined +him, and accompanied him to the gate. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this young witch-lady going to stay long at Mistover?” he +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a cruel shame to ill-use her, She must have suffered +greatly—more in mind than in body.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas a graceless trick—such a handsome girl, too. You ought +to see her, Mr. Yeobright, being a young man come from far, and with a little +more to show for your years than most of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think she would like to teach children?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +Sam shook his head. “Quite a different sort of body from that, I +reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, it was merely something which occurred to me. It would of course be +necessary to see her and talk it over—not an easy thing, by the way, for +my family and hers are not very friendly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you how you mid see her, Mr. Yeobright,” said Sam. +“We are going to grapple for the bucket at six o’clock tonight at +her house, and you could lend a hand. There’s five or six coming, but the +well is deep, and another might be useful, if you don’t mind appearing in +that shape. She’s sure to be walking round.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll think of it,” said Yeobright; and they parted. +</p> + +<p> +He thought of it a good deal; but nothing more was said about Eustacia inside +the house at that time. Whether this romantic martyr to superstition and the +melancholy mummer he had conversed with under the full moon were one and the +same person remained as yet a problem. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>III.<br /> +The First Act in a Timeworn Drama</h2> + +<p> +The afternoon was fine, and Yeobright walked on the heath for an hour with his +mother. When they reached the lofty ridge which divided the valley of +Blooms-End from the adjoining valley they stood still and looked round. The +Quiet Woman Inn was visible on the low margin of the heath in one direction, +and afar on the other hand rose Mistover Knap. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to call on Thomasin?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But you need not come this time,” said his mother. +</p> + +<p> +“In that case I’ll branch off here, Mother. I am going to +Mistover.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright turned to him inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to help them get the bucket out of the captain’s +well,” he continued. “As it is so very deep I may be useful. And I +should like to see this Miss Vye—not so much for her good looks as for +another reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must you go?” his mother asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought to.” +</p> + +<p> +And they parted. “There is no help for it,” murmured Clym’s +mother gloomily as he withdrew. “They are sure to see each other. I wish +Sam would carry his news to other houses than mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym’s retreating figure got smaller and smaller as it rose and fell over +the hillocks on his way. “He is tender-hearted,” said Mrs. +Yeobright to herself while she watched him; “otherwise it would matter +little. How he’s going on!” +</p> + +<p> +He was, indeed, walking with a will over the furze, as straight as a line, as +if his life depended upon it. His mother drew a long breath, and, abandoning +the visit to Thomasin, turned back. The evening films began to make nebulous +pictures of the valleys, but the high lands still were raked by the declining +rays of the winter sun, which glanced on Clym as he walked forward, eyed by +every rabbit and field-fare around, a long shadow advancing in front of him. +</p> + +<p> +On drawing near to the furze-covered bank and ditch which fortified the +captain’s dwelling he could hear voices within, signifying that +operations had been already begun. At the side-entrance gate he stopped and +looked over. +</p> + +<p> +Half a dozen able-bodied men were standing in a line from the well-mouth, +holding a rope which passed over the well-roller into the depths below. +Fairway, with a piece of smaller rope round his body, made fast to one of the +standards, to guard against accidents, was leaning over the opening, his right +hand clasping the vertical rope that descended into the well. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, silence, folks,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +The talking ceased, and Fairway gave a circular motion to the rope, as if he +were stirring batter. At the end of a minute a dull splashing reverberated from +the bottom of the well; the helical twist he had imparted to the rope had +reached the grapnel below. +</p> + +<p> +“Haul!” said Fairway; and the men who held the rope began to gather +it over the wheel. +</p> + +<p> +“I think we’ve got sommat,” said one of the haulers-in. +</p> + +<p> +“Then pull steady,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +They gathered up more and more, till a regular dripping into the well could be +heard below. It grew smarter with the increasing height of the bucket, and +presently a hundred and fifty feet of rope had been pulled in. +</p> + +<p> +Fairway then lit a lantern, tied it to another cord, and began lowering it into +the well beside the first: Clym came forward and looked down. Strange humid +leaves, which knew nothing of the seasons of the year, and quaint-natured +mosses were revealed on the wellside as the lantern descended; till its rays +fell upon a confused mass of rope and bucket dangling in the dank, dark air. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve only got en by the edge of the hoop—steady, for +God’s sake!” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +They pulled with the greatest gentleness, till the wet bucket appeared about +two yards below them, like a dead friend come to earth again. Three or four +hands were stretched out, then jerk went the rope, whizz went the wheel, the +two foremost haulers fell backward, the beating of a falling body was heard, +receding down the sides of the well, and a thunderous uproar arose at the +bottom. The bucket was gone again. +</p> + +<p> +“Damn the bucket!” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Lower again,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m as stiff as a ram’s horn stooping so long,” said +Fairway, standing up and stretching himself till his joints creaked. +</p> + +<p> +“Rest a few minutes, Timothy,” said Yeobright. “I’ll +take your place.” +</p> + +<p> +The grapnel was again lowered. Its smart impact upon the distant water reached +their ears like a kiss, whereupon Yeobright knelt down, and leaning over the +well began dragging the grapnel round and round as Fairway had done. +</p> + +<p> +“Tie a rope round him—it is dangerous!” cried a soft and +anxious voice somewhere above them. +</p> + +<p> +Everybody turned. The speaker was a woman, gazing down upon the group from an +upper window, whose panes blazed in the ruddy glare from the west. Her lips +were parted and she appeared for the moment to forget where she was. +</p> + +<p> +The rope was accordingly tied round his waist, and the work proceeded. At the +next haul the weight was not heavy, and it was discovered that they had only +secured a coil of the rope detached from the bucket. The tangled mass was +thrown into the background. Humphrey took Yeobright’s place, and the +grapnel was lowered again. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright retired to the heap of recovered rope in a meditative mood. Of the +identity between the lady’s voice and that of the melancholy mummer he +had not a moment’s doubt. “How thoughtful of her!” he said to +himself. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia, who had reddened when she perceived the effect of her exclamation +upon the group below, was no longer to be seen at the window, though Yeobright +scanned it wistfully. While he stood there the men at the well succeeded in +getting up the bucket without a mishap. One of them went to inquire for the +captain, to learn what orders he wished to give for mending the well-tackle. +The captain proved to be away from home, and Eustacia appeared at the door and +came out. She had lapsed into an easy and dignified calm, far removed from the +intensity of life in her words of solicitude for Clym’s safety. +</p> + +<p> +“Will it be possible to draw water here tonight?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss; the bottom of the bucket is clean knocked out. And as we can +do no more now we’ll leave off, and come again tomorrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“No water,” she murmured, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +“I can send you up some from Blooms-End,” said Clym, coming forward +and raising his hat as the men retired. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright and Eustacia looked at each other for one instant, as if each had in +mind those few moments during which a certain moonlight scene was common to +both. With the glance the calm fixity of her features sublimed itself to an +expression of refinement and warmth; it was like garish noon rising to the +dignity of sunset in a couple of seconds. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; it will hardly be necessary,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“But if you have no water?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is what I call no water,” she said, blushing, and lifting +her long-lashed eyelids as if to lift them were a work requiring consideration. +“But my grandfather calls it water enough. I’ll show you what I +mean.” +</p> + +<p> +She moved away a few yards, and Clym followed. When she reached the corner of +the enclosure, where the steps were formed for mounting the boundary bank, she +sprang up with a lightness which seemed strange after her listless movement +towards the well. It incidentally showed that her apparent languor did not +arise from lack of force. +</p> + +<p> +Clym ascended behind her, and noticed a circular burnt patch at the top of the +bank. “Ashes?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Eustacia. “We had a little bonfire here last +Fifth of November, and those are the marks of it.” +</p> + +<p> +On that spot had stood the fire she had kindled to attract Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the only kind of water we have,” she continued, +tossing a stone into the pool, which lay on the outside of the bank like the +white of an eye without its pupil. The stone fell with a flounce, but no +Wildeve appeared on the other side, as on a previous occasion there. “My +grandfather says he lived for more than twenty years at sea on water twice as +bad as that,” she went on, “and considers it quite good enough for +us here on an emergency.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as a matter of fact there are no impurities in the water of these +pools at this time of the year. It has only just rained into them.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. “I am managing to exist in a wilderness, but I cannot +drink from a pond,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Clym looked towards the well, which was now deserted, the men having gone home. +“It is a long way to send for spring-water,” he said, after a +silence. “But since you don’t like this in the pond, I’ll try +to get you some myself.” He went back to the well. “Yes, I think I +could do it by tying on this pail.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, since I would not trouble the men to get it, I cannot in conscience +let you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind the trouble at all.” +</p> + +<p> +He made fast the pail to the long coil of rope, put it over the wheel, and +allowed it to descend by letting the rope slip through his hands. Before it had +gone far, however, he checked it. +</p> + +<p> +“I must make fast the end first, or we may lose the whole,” he said +to Eustacia, who had drawn near. “Could you hold this a moment, while I +do it—or shall I call your servant?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hold it,” said Eustacia; and he placed the rope in her +hands, going then to search for the end. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I may let it slip down?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I would advise you not to let it go far,” said Clym. “It +will get much heavier, you will find.” +</p> + +<p> +However, Eustacia had begun to pay out. While he was tying she cried, “I +cannot stop it!” +</p> + +<p> +Clym ran to her side, and found he could only check the rope by twisting the +loose part round the upright post, when it stopped with a jerk. “Has it +hurt you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Very much?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I think not.” She opened her hands. One of them was bleeding; +the rope had dragged off the skin. Eustacia wrapped it in her handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“You should have let go,” said Yeobright. “Why didn’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You said I was to hold on.... This is the second time I have been +wounded today.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes; I have heard of it. I blush for my native Egdon. Was it a +serious injury you received in church, Miss Vye?” +</p> + +<p> +There was such an abundance of sympathy in Clym’s tone that Eustacia +slowly drew up her sleeve and disclosed her round white arm. A bright red spot +appeared on its smooth surface, like a ruby on Parian marble. +</p> + +<p> +“There it is,” she said, putting her finger against the spot. +</p> + +<p> +“It was dastardly of the woman,” said Clym. “Will not Captain +Vye get her punished?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is gone from home on that very business. I did not know that I had +such a magic reputation.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you fainted?” said Clym, looking at the scarlet little +puncture as if he would like to kiss it and make it well. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it frightened me. I had not been to church for a long time. And now +I shall not go again for ever so long—perhaps never. I cannot face their +eyes after this. Don’t you think it dreadfully humiliating? I wished I +was dead for hours after, but I don’t mind now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to clean away these cobwebs,” said Yeobright. +“Would you like to help me—by high-class teaching? We might benefit +them much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite feel anxious to. I have not much love for my +fellow-creatures. Sometimes I quite hate them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still I think that if you were to hear my scheme you might take an +interest in it. There is no use in hating people—if you hate anything, +you should hate what produced them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean Nature? I hate her already. But I shall be glad to hear your +scheme at any time.” +</p> + +<p> +The situation had now worked itself out, and the next natural thing was for +them to part. Clym knew this well enough, and Eustacia made a move of +conclusion; yet he looked at her as if he had one word more to say. Perhaps if +he had not lived in Paris it would never have been uttered. +</p> + +<p> +“We have met before,” he said, regarding her with rather more +interest than was necessary. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not own it,” said Eustacia, with a repressed, still look. +</p> + +<p> +“But I may think what I like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are lonely here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot endure the heath, except in its purple season. The heath is a +cruel taskmaster to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you say so?” he asked. “To my mind it is most +exhilarating, and strengthening, and soothing. I would rather live on these +hills than anywhere else in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is well enough for artists; but I never would learn to draw.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there is a very curious druidical stone just out there.” He +threw a pebble in the direction signified. “Do you often go to see +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not even aware there existed any such curious druidical stone. I +am aware that there are boulevards in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright looked thoughtfully on the ground. “That means much,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“It does indeed,” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember when I had the same longing for town bustle. Five years of a +great city would be a perfect cure for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven send me such a cure! Now, Mr. Yeobright, I will go indoors and +plaster my wounded hand.” +</p> + +<p> +They separated, and Eustacia vanished in the increasing shade. She seemed full +of many things. Her past was a blank, her life had begun. The effect upon Clym +of this meeting he did not fully discover till some time after. During his walk +home his most intelligible sensation was that his scheme had somehow become +glorified. A beautiful woman had been intertwined with it. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the house he went up to the room which was to be made his study, +and occupied himself during the evening in unpacking his books from the boxes +and arranging them on shelves. From another box he drew a lamp and a can of +oil. He trimmed the lamp, arranged his table, and said, “Now, I am ready +to begin.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +He rose early the next morning, read two hours before breakfast by the light of +his lamp—read all the morning, all the afternoon. Just when the sun was +going down his eyes felt weary, and he leant back in his chair. +</p> + +<p> +His room overlooked the front of the premises and the valley of the heath +beyond. The lowest beams of the winter sun threw the shadow of the house over +the palings, across the grass margin of the heath, and far up the vale, where +the chimney outlines and those of the surrounding tree-tops stretched forth in +long dark prongs. Having been seated at work all day, he decided to take a turn +upon the hills before it got dark; and, going out forthwith, he struck across +the heath towards Mistover. +</p> + +<p> +It was an hour and a half later when he again appeared at the garden gate. The +shutters of the house were closed, and Christian Cantle, who had been wheeling +manure about the garden all day, had gone home. On entering he found that his +mother, after waiting a long time for him, had finished her meal. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been, Clym?” she immediately said. “Why +didn’t you tell me that you were going away at this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been on the heath.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll meet Eustacia Vye if you go up there.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym paused a minute. “Yes, I met her this evening,” he said, as +though it were spoken under the sheer necessity of preserving honesty. +</p> + +<p> +“I wondered if you had.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was no appointment.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; such meetings never are.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not angry, Mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hardly say that I am not. Angry? No. But when I consider the usual +nature of the drag which causes men of promise to disappoint the world I feel +uneasy.” +</p> + +<p> +“You deserve credit for the feeling, Mother. But I can assure you that +you need not be disturbed by it on my account.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I think of you and your new crotchets,” said Mrs. Yeobright, +with some emphasis, “I naturally don’t feel so comfortable as I did +a twelvemonth ago. It is incredible to me that a man accustomed to the +attractive women of Paris and elsewhere should be so easily worked upon by a +girl in a heath. You could just as well have walked another way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had been studying all day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes,” she added more hopefully, “I have been thinking +that you might get on as a schoolmaster, and rise that way, since you really +are determined to hate the course you were pursuing.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright was unwilling to disturb this idea, though his scheme was far enough +removed from one wherein the education of youth should be made a mere channel +of social ascent. He had no desires of that sort. He had reached the stage in a +young man’s life when the grimness of the general human situation first +becomes clear; and the realization of this causes ambition to halt awhile. In +France it is not uncustomary to commit suicide at this stage; in England we do +much better, or much worse, as the case may be. +</p> + +<p> +The love between the young man and his mother was strangely invisible now. Of +love it may be said, the less earthly the less demonstrative. In its absolutely +indestructible form it reaches a profundity in which all exhibition of itself +is painful. It was so with these. Had conversations between them been +overheard, people would have said, “How cold they are to each +other!” +</p> + +<p> +His theory and his wishes about devoting his future to teaching had made an +impression on Mrs. Yeobright. Indeed, how could it be otherwise when he was a +part of her—when their discourses were as if carried on between the right +and the left hands of the same body? He had despaired of reaching her by +argument; and it was almost as a discovery to him that he could reach her by a +magnetism which was as superior to words as words are to yells. +</p> + +<p> +Strangely enough he began to feel now that it would not be so hard to persuade +her who was his best friend that comparative poverty was essentially the higher +course for him, as to reconcile to his feelings the act of persuading her. From +every provident point of view his mother was so undoubtedly right, that he was +not without a sickness of heart in finding he could shake her. +</p> + +<p> +She had a singular insight into life, considering that she had never mixed with +it. There are instances of persons who, without clear ideas of the things they +criticize have yet had clear ideas of the relations of those things. Blacklock, +a poet blind from his birth, could describe visual objects with accuracy; +Professor Sanderson, who was also blind, gave excellent lectures on colour, and +taught others the theory of ideas which they had and he had not. In the social +sphere these gifted ones are mostly women; they can watch a world which they +never saw, and estimate forces of which they have only heard. We call it +intuition. +</p> + +<p> +What was the great world to Mrs. Yeobright? A multitude whose tendencies could +be perceived, though not its essences. Communities were seen by her as from a +distance; she saw them as we see the throngs which cover the canvases of +Sallaert, Van Alsloot, and others of that school—vast masses of beings, +jostling, zigzagging, and processioning in definite directions, but whose +features are indistinguishable by the very comprehensiveness of the view. +</p> + +<p> +One could see that, as far as it had gone, her life was very complete on its +reflective side. The philosophy of her nature, and its limitation by +circumstances, was almost written in her movements. They had a majestic +foundation, though they were far from being majestic; and they had a +ground-work of assurance, but they were not assured. As her once elastic walk +had become deadened by time, so had her natural pride of life been hindered in +its blooming by her necessities. +</p> + +<p> +The next slight touch in the shaping of Clym’s destiny occurred a few +days after. A barrow was opened on the heath, and Yeobright attended the +operation, remaining away from his study during several hours. In the afternoon +Christian returned from a journey in the same direction, and Mrs. Yeobright +questioned him. +</p> + +<p> +“They have dug a hole, and they have found things like flowerpots upside +down, Mis’ess Yeobright; and inside these be real charnel bones. They +have carried ’em off to men’s houses; but I shouldn’t like to +sleep where they will bide. Dead folks have been known to come and claim their +own. Mr. Yeobright had got one pot of the bones, and was going to bring +’em home—real skellington bones—but ’twas ordered +otherwise. You’ll be relieved to hear that he gave away his pot and all, +on second thoughts; and a blessed thing for ye, Mis’ess Yeobright, +considering the wind o’ nights.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gave it away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. To Miss Vye. She has a cannibal taste for such churchyard furniture +seemingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Vye was there too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ’a b’lieve she was.” +</p> + +<p> +When Clym came home, which was shortly after, his mother said, in a curious +tone, “The urn you had meant for me you gave away.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright made no reply; the current of her feeling was too pronounced to admit +it. +</p> + +<p> +The early weeks of the year passed on. Yeobright certainly studied at home, but +he also walked much abroad, and the direction of his walk was always towards +some point of a line between Mistover and Rainbarrow. +</p> + +<p> +The month of March arrived, and the heath showed its first signs of awakening +from winter trance. The awakening was almost feline in its stealthiness. The +pool outside the bank by Eustacia’s dwelling, which seemed as dead and +desolate as ever to an observer who moved and made noises in his observation, +would gradually disclose a state of great animation when silently watched +awhile. A timid animal world had come to life for the season. Little tadpoles +and efts began to bubble up through the water, and to race along beneath it; +toads made noises like very young ducks, and advanced to the margin in twos and +threes; overhead, bumblebees flew hither and thither in the thickening light, +their drone coming and going like the sound of a gong. +</p> + +<p> +On an evening such as this Yeobright descended into the Blooms-End valley from +beside that very pool, where he had been standing with another person quite +silently and quite long enough to hear all this puny stir of resurrection in +nature; yet he had not heard it. His walk was rapid as he came down, and he +went with a springy trend. Before entering upon his mother’s premises he +stopped and breathed. The light which shone forth on him from the window +revealed that his face was flushed and his eye bright. What it did not show was +something which lingered upon his lips like a seal set there. The abiding +presence of this impress was so real that he hardly dared to enter the house, +for it seemed as if his mother might say, “What red spot is that glowing +upon your mouth so vividly?” +</p> + +<p> +But he entered soon after. The tea was ready, and he sat down opposite his +mother. She did not speak many words; and as for him, something had been just +done and some words had been just said on the hill which prevented him from +beginning a desultory chat. His mother’s taciturnity was not without +ominousness, but he appeared not to care. He knew why she said so little, but +he could not remove the cause of her bearing towards him. These half-silent +sittings were far from uncommon with them now. At last Yeobright made a +beginning of what was intended to strike at the whole root of the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“Five days have we sat like this at meals with scarcely a word. +What’s the use of it, Mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“None,” said she, in a heart-swollen tone. “But there is only +too good a reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not when you know all. I have been wanting to speak about this, and I am +glad the subject is begun. The reason, of course, is Eustacia Vye. Well, I +confess I have seen her lately, and have seen her a good many times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; and I know what that amounts to. It troubles me, Clym. You are +wasting your life here; and it is solely on account of her. If it had not been +for that woman you would never have entertained this teaching scheme at +all.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym looked hard at his mother. “You know that is not it,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know you had decided to attempt it before you saw her; but that +would have ended in intentions. It was very well to talk of, but ridiculous to +put in practice. I fully expected that in the course of a month or two you +would have seen the folly of such self-sacrifice, and would have been by this +time back again to Paris in some business or other. I can understand objections +to the diamond trade—I really was thinking that it might be inadequate to +the life of a man like you even though it might have made you a millionaire. +But now I see how mistaken you are about this girl I doubt if you could be +correct about other things.” +</p> + +<p> +“How am I mistaken in her?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is lazy and dissatisfied. But that is not all of it. Supposing her +to be as good a woman as any you can find, which she certainly is not, why do +you wish to connect yourself with anybody at present?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there are practical reasons,” Clym began, and then almost +broke off under an overpowering sense of the weight of argument which could be +brought against his statement. “If I take a school an educated woman +would be invaluable as a help to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! you really mean to marry her?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be premature to state that plainly. But consider what obvious +advantages there would be in doing it. She——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t suppose she has any money. She hasn’t a +farthing.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is excellently educated, and would make a good matron in a +boarding-school. I candidly own that I have modified my views a little, in +deference to you; and it should satisfy you. I no longer adhere to my intention +of giving with my own mouth rudimentary education to the lowest class. I can do +better. I can establish a good private school for farmers’ sons, and +without stopping the school I can manage to pass examinations. By this means, +and by the assistance of a wife like her——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Clym!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall ultimately, I hope, be at the head of one of the best schools in +the county.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright had enunciated the word “her” with a fervour which, in +conversation with a mother, was absurdly indiscreet. Hardly a maternal heart +within the four seas could in such circumstances, have helped being irritated +at that ill-timed betrayal of feeling for a new woman. +</p> + +<p> +“You are blinded, Clym,” she said warmly. “It was a bad day +for you when you first set eyes on her. And your scheme is merely a castle in +the air built on purpose to justify this folly which has seized you, and to +salve your conscience on the irrational situation you are in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, that’s not true,” he firmly answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you maintain that I sit and tell untruths, when all I wish to do is +to save you from sorrow? For shame, Clym! But it is all through that +woman—a hussy!” +</p> + +<p> +Clym reddened like fire and rose. He placed his hand upon his mother’s +shoulder and said, in a tone which hung strangely between entreaty and command, +“I won’t hear it. I may be led to answer you in a way which we +shall both regret.” +</p> + +<p> +His mother parted her lips to begin some other vehement truth, but on looking +at him she saw that in his face which led her to leave the words unsaid. +Yeobright walked once or twice across the room, and then suddenly went out of +the house. It was eleven o’clock when he came in, though he had not been +further than the precincts of the garden. His mother was gone to bed. A light +was left burning on the table, and supper was spread. Without stopping for any +food he secured the doors and went upstairs. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>IV.<br /> +An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness</h2> + +<p> +The next day was gloomy enough at Blooms-End. Yeobright remained in his study, +sitting over the open books; but the work of those hours was miserably scant. +Determined that there should be nothing in his conduct towards his mother +resembling sullenness, he had occasionally spoken to her on passing matters, +and would take no notice of the brevity of her replies. With the same resolve +to keep up a show of conversation he said, about seven o’clock in the +evening, “There’s an eclipse of the moon tonight. I am going out to +see it.” And, putting on his overcoat, he left her. +</p> + +<p> +The low moon was not as yet visible from the front of the house, and Yeobright +climbed out of the valley until he stood in the full flood of her light. But +even now he walked on, and his steps were in the direction of Rainbarrow. +</p> + +<p> +In half an hour he stood at the top. The sky was clear from verge to verge, and +the moon flung her rays over the whole heath, but without sensibly lighting it, +except where paths and water-courses had laid bare the white flints and +glistening quartz sand, which made streaks upon the general shade. After +standing awhile he stooped and felt the heather. It was dry, and he flung +himself down upon the barrow, his face towards the moon, which depicted a small +image of herself in each of his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He had often come up here without stating his purpose to his mother; but this +was the first time that he had been ostensibly frank as to his purpose while +really concealing it. It was a moral situation which, three months earlier, he +could hardly have credited of himself. In returning to labour in this +sequestered spot he had anticipated an escape from the chafing of social +necessities; yet behold they were here also. More than ever he longed to be in +some world where personal ambition was not the only recognized form of +progress—such, perhaps, as might have been the case at some time or other +in the silvery globe then shining upon him. His eye travelled over the length +and breadth of that distant country—over the Bay of Rainbows, the sombre +Sea of Crises, the Ocean of Storms, the Lake of Dreams, the vast Walled Plains, +and the wondrous Ring Mountains—till he almost felt himself to be +voyaging bodily through its wild scenes, standing on its hollow hills, +traversing its deserts, descending its vales and old sea bottoms, or mounting +to the edges of its craters. +</p> + +<p> +While he watched the far-removed landscape a tawny stain grew into being on the +lower verge—the eclipse had begun. This marked a preconcerted +moment—for the remote celestial phenomenon had been pressed into +sublunary service as a lover’s signal. Yeobright’s mind flew back +to earth at the sight; he arose, shook himself and listened. Minute after +minute passed by, perhaps ten minutes passed, and the shadow on the moon +perceptibly widened. He heard a rustling on his left hand, a cloaked figure +with an upturned face appeared at the base of the Barrow, and Clym descended. +In a moment the figure was in his arms, and his lips upon hers. +</p> + +<p> +“My Eustacia!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clym, dearest!” +</p> + +<p> +Such a situation had less than three months brought forth. +</p> + +<p> +They remained long without a single utterance, for no language could reach the +level of their condition—words were as the rusty implements of a by-gone +barbarous epoch, and only to be occasionally tolerated. +</p> + +<p> +“I began to wonder why you did not come,” said Yeobright, when she +had withdrawn a little from his embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“You said ten minutes after the first mark of shade on the edge of the +moon, and that’s what it is now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let us only think that here we are.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, holding each other’s hand, they were again silent, and the shadow +on the moon’s disc grew a little larger. +</p> + +<p> +“Has it seemed long since you last saw me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It has seemed sad.” +</p> + +<p> +“And not long? That’s because you occupy yourself, and so blind +yourself to my absence. To me, who can do nothing, it has been like living +under stagnant water.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather bear tediousness, dear, than have time made short by such +means as have shortened mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what way is that? You have been thinking you wished you did not love +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can a man wish that, and yet love on? No, Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Men can, women cannot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, whatever I may have thought, one thing is certain—I do love +you—past all compass and description. I love you to +oppressiveness—I, who have never before felt more than a pleasant passing +fancy for any woman I have ever seen. Let me look right into your moonlit face +and dwell on every line and curve in it! Only a few hairbreadths make the +difference between this face and faces I have seen many times before I knew +you; yet what a difference—the difference between everything and nothing +at all. One touch on that mouth again! there, and there, and there. Your eyes +seem heavy, Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is my general way of looking. I think it arises from my feeling +sometimes an agonizing pity for myself that I ever was born.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t feel it now?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Yet I know that we shall not love like this always. Nothing can +ensure the continuance of love. It will evaporate like a spirit, and so I feel +full of fears.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you don’t know. You have seen more than I, and have been into +cities and among people that I have only heard of, and have lived more years +than I; but yet I am older at this than you. I loved another man once, and now +I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“In God’s mercy don’t talk so, Eustacia!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not think I shall be the one who wearies first. It will, I +fear, end in this way: your mother will find out that you meet me, and she will +influence you against me!” +</p> + +<p> +“That can never be. She knows of these meetings already.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she speaks against me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not say.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, go away! Obey her. I shall ruin you. It is foolish of you to meet +me like this. Kiss me, and go away forever. Forever—do you +hear?—forever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is your only chance. Many a man’s love has been a curse to +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are desperate, full of fancies, and wilful; and you misunderstand. I +have an additional reason for seeing you tonight besides love of you. For +though, unlike you, I feel our affection may be eternal. I feel with you in +this, that our present mode of existence cannot last.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! ’tis your mother. Yes, that’s it! I knew it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind what it is. Believe this, I cannot let myself lose you. I +must have you always with me. This very evening I do not like to let you go. +There is only one cure for this anxiety, dearest—you must be my +wife.” +</p> + +<p> +She started—then endeavoured to say calmly, “Cynics say that cures +the anxiety by curing the love.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must answer me. Shall I claim you some day—I don’t +mean at once?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must think,” Eustacia murmured. “At present speak of Paris +to me. Is there any place like it on earth?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very beautiful. But will you be mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be nobody else’s in the world—does that satisfy +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now tell me of the Tuileries, and the Louvre,” she continued +evasively. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate talking of Paris! Well, I remember one sunny room in the Louvre +which would make a fitting place for you to live in—the Galerie +d’Apollon. Its windows are mainly east; and in the early morning, when +the sun is bright, the whole apartment is in a perfect blaze of splendour. The +rays bristle and dart from the encrustations of gilding to the magnificent +inlaid coffers, from the coffers to the gold and silver plate, from the plate +to the jewels and precious stones, from these to the enamels, till there is a +perfect network of light which quite dazzles the eye. But now, about our +marriage——” +</p> + +<p> +“And Versailles—the King’s Gallery is some such gorgeous +room, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But what’s the use of talking of gorgeous rooms? By the way, +the Little Trianon would suit us beautifully to live in, and you might walk in +the gardens in the moonlight and think you were in some English shrubbery; it +is laid out in English fashion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hate to think that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you could keep to the lawn in front of the Grand Palace. All about +there you would doubtless feel in a world of historical romance.” +</p> + +<p> +He went on, since it was all new to her, and described Fontainebleau, St. +Cloud, the Bois, and many other familiar haunts of the Parisians; till she +said— +</p> + +<p> +“When used you to go to these places?” +</p> + +<p> +“On Sundays.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes. I dislike English Sundays. How I should chime in with their +manners over there! Dear Clym, you’ll go back again?” +</p> + +<p> +Clym shook his head, and looked at the eclipse. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’ll go back again I’ll—be something,” she +said tenderly, putting her head near his breast. “If you’ll agree +I’ll give my promise, without making you wait a minute longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“How extraordinary that you and my mother should be of one mind about +this!” said Yeobright. “I have vowed not to go back, Eustacia. It +is not the place I dislike; it is the occupation.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can go in some other capacity.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Besides, it would interfere with my scheme. Don’t press that, +Eustacia. Will you marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now—never mind Paris; it is no better than other spots. Promise, +sweet!” +</p> + +<p> +“You will never adhere to your education plan, I am quite sure; and then +it will be all right for me; and so I promise to be yours for ever and +ever.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym brought her face towards his by a gentle pressure of the hand, and kissed +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but you don’t know what you have got in me,” she said. +“Sometimes I think there is not that in Eustacia Vye which will make a +good homespun wife. Well, let it go—see how our time is slipping, +slipping, slipping!” She pointed towards the half-eclipsed moon. +</p> + +<p> +“You are too mournful.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Only I dread to think of anything beyond the present. What is, we +know. We are together now, and it is unknown how long we shall be so; the +unknown always fills my mind with terrible possibilities, even when I may +reasonably expect it to be cheerful.... Clym, the eclipsed moonlight shines +upon your face with a strange foreign colour, and shows its shape as if it were +cut out in gold. That means that you should be doing better things than +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are ambitious, Eustacia—no, not exactly ambitious, luxurious. +I ought to be of the same vein, to make you happy, I suppose. And yet, far from +that, I could live and die in a hermitage here, with proper work to do.” +</p> + +<p> +There was that in his tone which implied distrust of his position as a +solicitous lover, a doubt if he were acting fairly towards one whose tastes +touched his own only at rare and infrequent points. She saw his meaning, and +whispered, in a low, full accent of eager assurance, “Don’t mistake +me, Clym—though I should like Paris, I love you for yourself alone. To be +your wife and live in Paris would be heaven to me; but I would rather live with +you in a hermitage here than not be yours at all. It is gain to me either way, +and very great gain. There’s my too candid confession.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spoken like a woman. And now I must soon leave you. I’ll walk with +you towards your house.” +</p> + +<p> +“But must you go home yet?” she asked. “Yes, the sand has +nearly slipped away, I see, and the eclipse is creeping on more and more. +Don’t go yet! Stop till the hour has run itself out; then I will not +press you any more. You will go home and sleep well; I keep sighing in my +sleep! Do you ever dream of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot recollect a clear dream of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see your face in every scene of my dreams, and hear your voice in +every sound. I wish I did not. It is too much what I feel. They say such love +never lasts. But it must! And yet once, I remember, I saw an officer of the +Hussars ride down the street at Budmouth, and though he was a total stranger +and never spoke to me, I loved him till I thought I should really die of +love—but I didn’t die, and at last I left off caring for him. How +terrible it would be if a time should come when I could not love you, my +Clym!” +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t say such reckless things. When we see such a time at +hand we will say, ‘I have outlived my faith and purpose,’ and die. +There, the hour has expired—now let us walk on.” +</p> + +<p> +Hand in hand they went along the path towards Mistover. When they were near the +house he said, “It is too late for me to see your grandfather tonight. Do +you think he will object to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will speak to him. I am so accustomed to be my own mistress that it +did not occur to me that we should have to ask him.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they lingeringly separated, and Clym descended towards Blooms-End. +</p> + +<p> +And as he walked further and further from the charmed atmosphere of his +Olympian girl his face grew sad with a new sort of sadness. A perception of the +dilemma in which his love had placed him came back in full force. In spite of +Eustacia’s apparent willingness to wait through the period of an +unpromising engagement, till he should be established in his new pursuit, he +could not but perceive at moments that she loved him rather as a visitant from +a gay world to which she rightly belonged than as a man with a purpose opposed +to that recent past of his which so interested her. It meant that, though she +made no conditions as to his return to the French capital, this was what she +secretly longed for in the event of marriage; and it robbed him of many an +otherwise pleasant hour. Along with that came the widening breach between +himself and his mother. Whenever any little occurrence had brought into more +prominence than usual the disappointment that he was causing her it had sent +him on lone and moody walks; or he was kept awake a great part of the night by +the turmoil of spirit which such a recognition created. If Mrs. Yeobright could +only have been led to see what a sound and worthy purpose this purpose of his +was and how little it was being affected by his devotions to Eustacia, how +differently would she regard him! +</p> + +<p> +Thus as his sight grew accustomed to the first blinding halo kindled about him +by love and beauty, Yeobright began to perceive what a strait he was in. +Sometimes he wished that he had never known Eustacia, immediately to retract +the wish as brutal. Three antagonistic growths had to be kept alive: his +mother’s trust in him, his plan for becoming a teacher, and +Eustacia’s happiness. His fervid nature could not afford to relinquish +one of these, though two of the three were as many as he could hope to +preserve. Though his love was as chaste as that of Petrarch for his Laura, it +had made fetters of what previously was only a difficulty. A position which was +not too simple when he stood whole-hearted had become indescribably complicated +by the addition of Eustacia. Just when his mother was beginning to tolerate one +scheme he had introduced another still bitterer than the first, and the +combination was more than she could bear. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>V.<br /> +Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues</h2> + +<p> +When Yeobright was not with Eustacia he was sitting slavishly over his books; +when he was not reading he was meeting her. These meetings were carried on with +the greatest secrecy. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon his mother came home from a morning visit to Thomasin. He could +see from a disturbance in the lines of her face that something had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been told an incomprehensible thing,” she said mournfully. +“The captain has let out at the Woman that you and Eustacia Vye are +engaged to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are,” said Yeobright. “But it may not be yet for a very +long time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hardly think it <i>would</i> be yet for a very long time! You +will take her to Paris, I suppose?” She spoke with weary hopelessness. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going back to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“What will you do with a wife, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep a school in Budmouth, as I have told you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s incredible! The place is overrun with schoolmasters. You +have no special qualifications. What possible chance is there for such as +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no chance of getting rich. But with my system of education, +which is as new as it is true, I shall do a great deal of good to my +fellow-creatures.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dreams, dreams! If there had been any system left to be invented they +would have found it out at the universities long before this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never, Mother. They cannot find it out, because their teachers +don’t come in contact with the class which demands such a +system—that is, those who have had no preliminary training. My plan is +one for instilling high knowledge into empty minds without first cramming them +with what has to be uncrammed again before true study begins.” +</p> + +<p> +“I might have believed you if you had kept yourself free from +entanglements; but this woman—if she had been a good girl it would have +been bad enough; but being——” +</p> + +<p> +“She is a good girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you think. A Corfu bandmaster’s daughter! What has her life +been? Her surname even is not her true one.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is Captain Vye’s granddaughter, and her father merely took her +mother’s name. And she is a lady by instinct.” +</p> + +<p> +“They call him ‘captain,’ but anybody is captain.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was in the Royal Navy!” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt he has been to sea in some tub or other. Why doesn’t he +look after her? No lady would rove about the heath at all hours of the day and +night as she does. But that’s not all of it. There was something queer +between her and Thomasin’s husband at one time—I am as sure of it +as that I stand here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eustacia has told me. He did pay her a little attention a year ago; but +there’s no harm in that. I like her all the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clym,” said his mother with firmness, “I have no proofs +against her, unfortunately. But if she makes you a good wife, there has never +been a bad one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me, you are almost exasperating,” said Yeobright +vehemently. “And this very day I had intended to arrange a meeting +between you. But you give me no peace; you try to thwart my wishes in +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hate the thought of any son of mine marrying badly! I wish I had never +lived to see this; it is too much for me—it is more than I dreamt!” +She turned to the window. Her breath was coming quickly, and her lips were +pale, parted, and trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” said Clym, “whatever you do, you will always be +dear to me—that you know. But one thing I have a right to say, which is, +that at my age I am old enough to know what is best for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright remained for some time silent and shaken, as if she could say no +more. Then she replied, “Best? Is it best for you to injure your +prospects for such a voluptuous, idle woman as that? Don’t you see that +by the very fact of your choosing her you prove that you do not know what is +best for you? You give up your whole thought—you set your whole +soul—to please a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do. And that woman is you.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you treat me so flippantly!” said his mother, turning +again to him with a tearful look. “You are unnatural, Clym, and I did not +expect it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very likely,” said he cheerlessly. “You did not know the +measure you were going to mete me, and therefore did not know the measure that +would be returned to you again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You answer me; you think only of her. You stick to her in all +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“That proves her to be worthy. I have never yet supported what is bad. +And I do not care only for her. I care for you and for myself, and for anything +that is good. When a woman once dislikes another she is merciless!” +</p> + +<p> +“O Clym! please don’t go setting down as my fault what is your +obstinate wrongheadedness. If you wished to connect yourself with an unworthy +person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn’t you do it in +Paris?—it is more the fashion there. You have come only to distress me, a +lonely woman, and shorten my days! I wish that you would bestow your presence +where you bestow your love!” +</p> + +<p> +Clym said huskily, “You are my mother. I will say no more—beyond +this, that I beg your pardon for having thought this my home. I will no longer +inflict myself upon you; I’ll go.” And he went out with tears in +his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +It was a sunny afternoon at the beginning of summer, and the moist hollows of +the heath had passed from their brown to their green stage. Yeobright walked to +the edge of the basin which extended down from Mistover and Rainbarrow. +</p> + +<p> +By this time he was calm, and he looked over the landscape. In the minor +valleys, between the hillocks which diversified the contour of the vale, the +fresh young ferns were luxuriantly growing up, ultimately to reach a height of +five or six feet. He descended a little way, flung himself down in a spot where +a path emerged from one of the small hollows, and waited. Hither it was that he +had promised Eustacia to bring his mother this afternoon, that they might meet +and be friends. His attempt had utterly failed. +</p> + +<p> +He was in a nest of vivid green. The ferny vegetation round him, though so +abundant, was quite uniform—it was a grove of machine-made foliage, a +world of green triangles with saw-edges, and not a single flower. The air was +warm with a vaporous warmth, and the stillness was unbroken. Lizards, +grasshoppers, and ants were the only living things to be beheld. The scene +seemed to belong to the ancient world of the carboniferous period, when the +forms of plants were few, and of the fern kind; when there was neither bud nor +blossom, nothing but a monotonous extent of leafage, amid which no bird sang. +</p> + +<p> +When he had reclined for some considerable time, gloomily pondering, he +discerned above the ferns a drawn bonnet of white silk approaching from the +left, and Yeobright knew directly that it covered the head of her he loved. His +heart awoke from its apathy to a warm excitement, and, jumping to his feet, he +said aloud, “I knew she was sure to come.” +</p> + +<p> +She vanished in a hollow for a few moments, and then her whole form unfolded +itself from the brake. +</p> + +<p> +“Only you here?” she exclaimed, with a disappointed air, whose +hollowness was proved by her rising redness and her half-guilty low laugh. +“Where is Mrs. Yeobright?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has not come,” he replied in a subdued tone. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had known that you would be here alone,” she said +seriously, “and that we were going to have such an idle, pleasant time as +this. Pleasure not known beforehand is half wasted; to anticipate it is to +double it. I have not thought once today of having you all to myself this +afternoon, and the actual moment of a thing is so soon gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Clym!” she continued, looking tenderly into his face. +“You are sad. Something has happened at your home. Never mind what +is—let us only look at what seems.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, darling, what shall we do?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Still go on as we do now—just live on from meeting to meeting, +never minding about another day. You, I know, are always thinking of +that—I can see you are. But you must not—will you, dear +Clym?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are just like all women. They are ever content to build their lives +on any incidental position that offers itself; whilst men would fain make a +globe to suit them. Listen to this, Eustacia. There is a subject I have +determined to put off no longer. Your sentiment on the wisdom of <i>Carpe +diem</i> does not impress me today. Our present mode of life must shortly be +brought to an end.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is your mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is. I love you none the less in telling you; it is only right you +should know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have feared my bliss,” she said, with the merest motion of her +lips. “It has been too intense and consuming.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is hope yet. There are forty years of work in me yet, and why +should you despair? I am only at an awkward turning. I wish people +wouldn’t be so ready to think that there is no progress without +uniformity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—your mind runs off to the philosophical side of it. Well, these +sad and hopeless obstacles are welcome in one sense, for they enable us to look +with indifference upon the cruel satires that Fate loves to indulge in. I have +heard of people, who, upon coming suddenly into happiness, have died from +anxiety lest they should not live to enjoy it. I felt myself in that whimsical +state of uneasiness lately; but I shall be spared it now. Let us walk +on.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym took the hand which was already bared for him—it was a favourite way +with them to walk bare hand in bare hand—and led her through the ferns. +They formed a very comely picture of love at full flush, as they walked along +the valley that late afternoon, the sun sloping down on their right, and +throwing their thin spectral shadows, tall as poplar trees, far out across the +furze and fern. Eustacia went with her head thrown back fancifully, a certain +glad and voluptuous air of triumph pervading her eyes at having won by her own +unaided self a man who was her perfect complement in attainment, appearance, +and age. On the young man’s part, the paleness of face which he had +brought with him from Paris, and the incipient marks of time and thought, were +less perceptible than when he returned, the healthful and energetic sturdiness +which was his by nature having partially recovered its original proportions. +They wandered onward till they reached the nether margin of the heath, where it +became marshy and merged in moorland. +</p> + +<p> +“I must part from you here, Clym,” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +They stood still and prepared to bid each other farewell. Everything before +them was on a perfect level. The sun, resting on the horizon line, streamed +across the ground from between copper-coloured and lilac clouds, stretched out +in flats beneath a sky of pale soft green. All dark objects on the earth that +lay towards the sun were overspread by a purple haze, against which groups of +wailing gnats shone out, rising upwards and dancing about like sparks of fire. +</p> + +<p> +“O! this leaving you is too hard to bear!” exclaimed Eustacia in a +sudden whisper of anguish. “Your mother will influence you too much; I +shall not be judged fairly, it will get afloat that I am not a good girl, and +the witch story will be added to make me blacker!” +</p> + +<p> +“They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you—that you could not be +able to desert me anyhow!” +</p> + +<p> +Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was passionate, +and he cut the knot. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall be sure of me, darling,” he said, folding her in his +arms. “We will be married at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Clym!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you agree to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“If—if we can.” +</p> + +<p> +“We certainly can, both being of full age. And I have not followed my +occupation all these years without having accumulated money; and if you will +agree to live in a tiny cottage somewhere on the heath, until I take a house in +Budmouth for the school, we can do it at a very little expense.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?” +</p> + +<p> +“About six months. At the end of that time I shall have finished my +reading—yes, we will do it, and this heart-aching will be over. We shall, +of course, live in absolute seclusion, and our married life will only begin to +outward view when we take the house in Budmouth, where I have already addressed +a letter on the matter. Would your grandfather allow you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he would—on the understanding that it should not last +longer than six months.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens.” +</p> + +<p> +“If no misfortune happens,” she repeated slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day.” +</p> + +<p> +And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It was to be a +fortnight from that time. +</p> + +<p> +This was the end of their talk, and Eustacia left him. Clym watched her as she +retired towards the sun. The luminous rays wrapped her up with her increasing +distance, and the rustle of her dress over the sprouting sedge and grass died +away. As he watched, the dead flat of the scenery overpowered him, though he +was fully alive to the beauty of that untarnished early summer green which was +worn for the nonce by the poorest blade. There was something in its oppressive +horizontality which too much reminded him of the arena of life; it gave him a +sense of bare equality with, and no superiority to, a single living thing under +the sun. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was now no longer the goddess but the woman to him, a being to fight +for, support, help, be maligned for. Now that he had reached a cooler moment he +would have preferred a less hasty marriage; but the card was laid, and he +determined to abide by the game. Whether Eustacia was to add one other to the +list of those who love too hotly to love long and well, the forthcoming event +was certainly a ready way of proving. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>VI.<br /> +Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete</h2> + +<p> +All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came from +Yeobright’s room to the ears of his mother downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning he departed from the house and again proceeded across the heath. A +long day’s march was before him, his object being to secure a dwelling to +which he might take Eustacia when she became his wife. Such a house, small, +secluded, and with its windows boarded up, he had casually observed a month +earlier, about two miles beyond the village of East Egdon, and six miles +distant altogether; and thither he directed his steps today. +</p> + +<p> +The weather was far different from that of the evening before. The yellow and +vapoury sunset which had wrapped up Eustacia from his parting gaze had presaged +change. It was one of those not infrequent days of an English June which are as +wet and boisterous as November. The cold clouds hastened on in a body, as if +painted on a moving slide. Vapours from other continents arrived upon the wind, +which curled and parted round him as he walked on. +</p> + +<p> +At length Clym reached the margin of a fir and beech plantation that had been +enclosed from heath-land in the year of his birth. Here the trees, laden +heavily with their new and humid leaves, were now suffering more damage than +during the highest winds of winter, when the boughs are especially +disencumbered to do battle with the storm. The wet young beeches were +undergoing amputations, bruises, cripplings, and harsh lacerations, from which +the wasting sap would bleed for many a day to come, and which would leave scars +visible till the day of their burning. Each stem was wrenched at the root, +where it moved like a bone in its socket, and at every onset of the gale +convulsive sounds came from the branches, as if pain were felt. In a +neighbouring brake a finch was trying to sing; but the wind blew under his +feathers till they stood on end, twisted round his little tail, and made him +give up his song. +</p> + +<p> +Yet a few yards to Yeobright’s left, on the open heath, how ineffectively +gnashed the storm! Those gusts which tore the trees merely waved the furze and +heather in a light caress. Egdon was made for such times as these. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright reached the empty house about midday. It was almost as lonely as that +of Eustacia’s grandfather, but the fact that it stood near a heath was +disguised by a belt of firs which almost enclosed the premises. He journeyed on +about a mile further to the village in which the owner lived, and, returning +with him to the house, arrangements were completed, and the man undertook that +one room at least should be ready for occupation the next day. Clym’s +intention was to live there alone until Eustacia should join him on their +wedding-day. +</p> + +<p> +Then he turned to pursue his way homeward through the drizzle that had so +greatly transformed the scene. The ferns, among which he had lain in comfort +yesterday, were dripping moisture from every frond, wetting his legs through as +he brushed past; and the fur of the rabbits leaping before him was clotted into +dark locks by the same watery surrounding. +</p> + +<p> +He reached home damp and weary enough after his ten-mile walk. It had hardly +been a propitious beginning, but he had chosen his course, and would show no +swerving. The evening and the following morning were spent in concluding +arrangements for his departure. To stay at home a minute longer than necessary +after having once come to his determination would be, he felt, only to give new +pain to his mother by some word, look, or deed. +</p> + +<p> +He had hired a conveyance and sent off his goods by two o’clock that day. +The next step was to get some furniture, which, after serving for temporary use +in the cottage, would be available for the house at Budmouth when increased by +goods of a better description. A mart extensive enough for the purpose existed +at Anglebury, some miles beyond the spot chosen for his residence, and there he +resolved to pass the coming night. +</p> + +<p> +It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting by the window +as usual when he came downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, I am going to leave you,” he said, holding out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were, by your packing,” replied Mrs. Yeobright in a +voice from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded. +</p> + +<p> +“And you will part friends with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were going to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then—and then you must come and see us. You will understand me +better after that, and our situation will not be so wretched as it is +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think it likely I shall come to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia’s, Mother. +Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her cheek, and departed in great misery, which was several hours in +lessening itself to a controllable level. The position had been such that +nothing more could be said without, in the first place, breaking down a +barrier; and that was not to be done. +</p> + +<p> +No sooner had Yeobright gone from his mother’s house than her face +changed its rigid aspect for one of blank despair. After a while she wept, and +her tears brought some relief. During the rest of the day she did nothing but +walk up and down the garden path in a state bordering on stupefaction. Night +came, and with it but little rest. The next day, with an instinct to do +something which should reduce prostration to mournfulness, she went to her +son’s room, and with her own hands arranged it in order, for an imaginary +time when he should return again. She gave some attention to her flowers, but +it was perfunctorily bestowed, for they no longer charmed her. +</p> + +<p> +It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paid her an +unexpected visit. This was not the first meeting between the relatives since +Thomasin’s marriage; and past blunders having been in a rough way +rectified, they could always greet each other with pleasure and ease. +</p> + +<p> +The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the door became the +young wife well. It illuminated her as her presence illuminated the heath. In +her movements, in her gaze, she reminded the beholder of the feathered +creatures who lived around her home. All similes and allegories concerning her +began and ended with birds. There was as much variety in her motions as in +their flight. When she was musing she was a kestrel, which hangs in the air by +an invisible motion of its wings. When she was in a high wind her light body +was blown against trees and banks like a heron’s. When she was frightened +she darted noiselessly like a kingfisher. When she was serene she skimmed like +a swallow, and that is how she was moving now. +</p> + +<p> +“You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie,” said Mrs. +Yeobright, with a sad smile. “How is Damon?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he kind to you, Thomasin?” And Mrs. Yeobright observed her +narrowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty fairly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that honestly said?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Aunt. I would tell you if he were unkind.” She added, +blushing, and with hesitation, “He—I don’t know if I ought to +complain to you about this, but I am not quite sure what to do. I want some +money, you know, Aunt—some to buy little things for myself—and he +doesn’t give me any. I don’t like to ask him; and yet, perhaps, he +doesn’t give it me because he doesn’t know. Ought I to mention it +to him, Aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you ought. Have you never said a word on the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“You see, I had some of my own,” said Thomasin evasively, +“and I have not wanted any of his until lately. I did just say something +about it last week; but he seems—not to remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“He must be made to remember. You are aware that I have a little box full +of spade-guineas, which your uncle put into my hands to divide between yourself +and Clym whenever I chose. Perhaps the time has come when it should be done. +They can be turned into sovereigns at any moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I should like to have my share—that is, if you don’t +mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall, if necessary. But it is only proper that you should first +tell your husband distinctly that you are without any, and see what he will +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, I will.... Aunt, I have heard about Clym. I know you are in +trouble about him, and that’s why I have come.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright turned away, and her features worked in her attempt to conceal +her feelings. Then she ceased to make any attempt, and said, weeping, “O +Thomasin, do you think he hates me? How can he bear to grieve me so, when I +have lived only for him through all these years?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hate you—no,” said Thomasin soothingly. “It is only +that he loves her too well. Look at it quietly—do. It is not so very bad +of him. Do you know, I thought it not the worst match he could have made. Miss +Vye’s family is a good one on her mother’s side; and her father was +a romantic wanderer—a sort of Greek Ulysses.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use, Thomasin; it is no use. Your intention is good; but I will +not trouble you to argue. I have gone through the whole that can be said on +either side times, and many times. Clym and I have not parted in anger; we have +parted in a worse way. It is not a passionate quarrel that would have broken my +heart; it is the steady opposition and persistence in going wrong that he has +shown. O Thomasin, he was so good as a little boy—so tender and +kind!” +</p> + +<p> +“He was, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think one whom I called mine would grow up to treat me like +this. He spoke to me as if I opposed him to injure him. As though I could wish +him ill!” +</p> + +<p> +“There are worse women in the world than Eustacia Vye.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are too many better that’s the agony of it. It was she, +Thomasin, and she only, who led your husband to act as he did—I would +swear it!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Thomasin eagerly. “It was before he knew me that +he thought of her, and it was nothing but a mere flirtation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; we will let it be so. There is little use in unravelling that +now. Sons must be blind if they will. Why is it that a woman can see from a +distance what a man cannot see close? Clym must do as he will—he is +nothing more to me. And this is maternity—to give one’s best years +and best love to ensure the fate of being despised!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are too unyielding. Think how many mothers there are whose sons have +brought them to public shame by real crimes before you feel so deeply a case +like this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin, don’t lecture me—I can’t have it. It is the +excess above what we expect that makes the force of the blow, and that may not +be greater in their case than in mine—they may have foreseen the +worst.... I am wrongly made, Thomasin,” she added, with a mournful smile. +“Some widows can guard against the wounds their children give them by +turning their hearts to another husband and beginning life again. But I always +was a poor, weak, one-idea’d creature—I had not the compass of +heart nor the enterprise for that. Just as forlorn and stupefied as I was when +my husband’s spirit flew away I have sat ever since—never +attempting to mend matters at all. I was comparatively a young woman then, and +I might have had another family by this time, and have been comforted by them +for the failure of this one son.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is more noble in you that you did not.” +</p> + +<p> +“The more noble, the less wise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Forget it, and be soothed, dear Aunt. And I shall not leave you alone +for long. I shall come and see you every day.” +</p> + +<p> +And for one week Thomasin literally fulfilled her word. She endeavoured to make +light of the wedding; and brought news of the preparations, and that she was +invited to be present. The next week she was rather unwell, and did not appear. +Nothing had as yet been done about the guineas, for Thomasin feared to address +her husband again on the subject, and Mrs. Yeobright had insisted upon this. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +One day just before this time Wildeve was standing at the door of the Quiet +Woman. In addition to the upward path through the heath to Rainbarrow and +Mistover, there was a road which branched from the highway a short distance +below the inn, and ascended to Mistover by a circuitous and easy incline. This +was the only route on that side for vehicles to the captain’s retreat. A +light cart from the nearest town descended the road, and the lad who was +driving pulled up in front of the inn for something to drink. +</p> + +<p> +“You come from Mistover?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. They are taking in good things up there. Going to be a +wedding.” And the driver buried his face in his mug. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve had not received an inkling of the fact before, and a sudden expression +of pain overspread his face. He turned for a moment into the passage to hide +it. Then he came back again. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean Miss Vye?” he said. “How is it—that she +can be married so soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“By the will of God and a ready young man, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean Mr. Yeobright?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. He has been creeping about with her all the spring.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose—she was immensely taken with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is crazy about him, so their general servant of all work tells me. +And that lad Charley that looks after the horse is all in a daze about it. The +stun-poll has got fond-like of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she lively—is she glad? Going to be married so +soon—well!” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t so very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; not so very soon.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve went indoors to the empty room, a curious heartache within him. He +rested his elbow upon the mantelpiece and his face upon his hand. When Thomasin +entered the room he did not tell her of what he had heard. The old longing for +Eustacia had reappeared in his soul—and it was mainly because he had +discovered that it was another man’s intention to possess her. +</p> + +<p> +To be yearning for the difficult, to be weary of that offered; to care for the +remote, to dislike the near; it was Wildeve’s nature always. This is the +true mark of the man of sentiment. Though Wildeve’s fevered feeling had +not been elaborated to real poetical compass, it was of the standard sort. His +might have been called the Rousseau of Egdon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>VII.<br /> +The Morning and the Evening of a Day</h2> + +<p> +The wedding morning came. Nobody would have imagined from appearances that +Blooms-End had any interest in Mistover that day. A solemn stillness prevailed +around the house of Clym’s mother, and there was no more animation +indoors. Mrs. Yeobright, who had declined to attend the ceremony, sat by the +breakfast table in the old room which communicated immediately with the porch, +her eyes listlessly directed towards the open door. It was the room in which, +six months earlier, the merry Christmas party had met, to which Eustacia came +secretly and as a stranger. The only living thing that entered now was a +sparrow; and seeing no movements to cause alarm, he hopped boldly round the +room, endeavoured to go out by the window, and fluttered among the pot-flowers. +This roused the lonely sitter, who got up, released the bird, and went to the +door. She was expecting Thomasin, who had written the night before to state +that the time had come when she would wish to have the money and that she would +if possible call this day. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Thomasin occupied Mrs. Yeobright’s thoughts but slightly as she +looked up the valley of the heath, alive with butterflies, and with +grasshoppers whose husky noises on every side formed a whispered chorus. A +domestic drama, for which the preparations were now being made a mile or two +off, was but little less vividly present to her eyes than if enacted before +her. She tried to dismiss the vision, and walked about the garden plot; but her +eyes ever and anon sought out the direction of the parish church to which +Mistover belonged, and her excited fancy clove the hills which divided the +building from her eyes. The morning wore away. Eleven o’clock +struck—could it be that the wedding was then in progress? It must be so. +She went on imagining the scene at the church, which he had by this time +approached with his bride. She pictured the little group of children by the +gate as the pony carriage drove up in which, as Thomasin had learnt, they were +going to perform the short journey. Then she saw them enter and proceed to the +chancel and kneel; and the service seemed to go on. +</p> + +<p> +She covered her face with her hands. “O, it is a mistake!” she +groaned. “And he will rue it some day, and think of me!” +</p> + +<p> +While she remained thus, overcome by her forebodings, the old clock indoors +whizzed forth twelve strokes. Soon after, faint sounds floated to her ear from +afar over the hills. The breeze came from that quarter, and it had brought with +it the notes of distant bells, gaily starting off in a peal: one, two, three, +four, five. The ringers at East Egdon were announcing the nuptials of Eustacia +and her son. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is over,” she murmured. “Well, well! and life too +will be over soon. And why should I go on scalding my face like this? Cry about +one thing in life, cry about all; one thread runs through the whole piece. And +yet we say, ‘a time to laugh!’” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Towards evening Wildeve came. Since Thomasin’s marriage Mrs. Yeobright +had shown him that grim friendliness which at last arises in all such cases of +undesired affinity. The vision of what ought to have been is thrown aside in +sheer weariness, and browbeaten human endeavour listlessly makes the best of +the fact that is. Wildeve, to do him justice, had behaved very courteously to +his wife’s aunt; and it was with no surprise that she saw him enter now. +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin has not been able to come, as she promised to do,” he +replied to her inquiry, which had been anxious, for she knew that her niece was +badly in want of money. “The captain came down last night and personally +pressed her to join them today. So, not to be unpleasant, she determined to go. +They fetched her in the pony-chaise, and are going to bring her back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is done,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “Have they gone to +their new home?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. I have had no news from Mistover since Thomasin left +to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did not go with her?” said she, as if there might be good +reasons why. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not,” said Wildeve, reddening slightly. “We could +not both leave the house; it was rather a busy morning, on account of Anglebury +Great Market. I believe you have something to give to Thomasin? If you like, I +will take it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright hesitated, and wondered if Wildeve knew what the something was. +“Did she tell you of this?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Not particularly. She casually dropped a remark about having arranged to +fetch some article or other.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is hardly necessary to send it. She can have it whenever she chooses +to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“That won’t be yet. In the present state of her health she must not +go on walking so much as she has done.” He added, with a faint twang of +sarcasm, “What wonderful thing is it that I cannot be trusted to +take?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing worth troubling you with.” +</p> + +<p> +“One would think you doubted my honesty,” he said, with a laugh, +though his colour rose in a quick resentfulness frequent with him. +</p> + +<p> +“You need think no such thing,” said she drily. “It is simply +that I, in common with the rest of the world, feel that there are certain +things which had better be done by certain people than by others.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you like, as you like,” said Wildeve laconically. “It is +not worth arguing about. Well, I think I must turn homeward again, as the inn +must not be left long in charge of the lad and the maid only.” +</p> + +<p> +He went his way, his farewell being scarcely so courteous as his greeting. But +Mrs. Yeobright knew him thoroughly by this time, and took little notice of his +manner, good or bad. +</p> + +<p> +When Wildeve was gone Mrs. Yeobright stood and considered what would be the +best course to adopt with regard to the guineas, which she had not liked to +entrust to Wildeve. It was hardly credible that Thomasin had told him to ask +for them, when the necessity for them had arisen from the difficulty of +obtaining money at his hands. At the same time Thomasin really wanted them, and +might be unable to come to Blooms-End for another week at least. To take or +send the money to her at the inn would be impolite, since Wildeve would pretty +surely be present, or would discover the transaction; and if, as her aunt +suspected, he treated her less kindly than she deserved to be treated, he might +then get the whole sum out of her gentle hands. But on this particular evening +Thomasin was at Mistover, and anything might be conveyed to her there without +the knowledge of her husband. Upon the whole the opportunity was worth taking +advantage of. +</p> + +<p> +Her son, too, was there, and was now married. There could be no more proper +moment to render him his share of the money than the present. And the chance +that would be afforded her, by sending him this gift, of showing how far she +was from bearing him ill-will, cheered the sad mother’s heart. +</p> + +<p> +She went upstairs and took from a locked drawer a little box, out of which she +poured a hoard of broad unworn guineas that had lain there many a year. There +were a hundred in all, and she divided them into two heaps, fifty in each. +Tying up these in small canvas bags, she went down to the garden and called to +Christian Cantle, who was loitering about in hope of a supper which was not +really owed him. Mrs. Yeobright gave him the moneybags, charged him to go to +Mistover, and on no account to deliver them into any one’s hands save her +son’s and Thomasin’s. On further thought she deemed it advisable to +tell Christian precisely what the two bags contained, that he might be fully +impressed with their importance. Christian pocketed the moneybags, promised the +greatest carefulness, and set out on his way. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not hurry,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “It will be better +not to get there till after dusk, and then nobody will notice you. Come back +here to supper, if it is not too late.” +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly nine o’clock when he began to ascend the vale towards +Mistover; but the long days of summer being at their climax, the first +obscurity of evening had only just begun to tan the landscape. At this point of +his journey Christian heard voices, and found that they proceeded from a +company of men and women who were traversing a hollow ahead of him, the tops +only of their heads being visible. +</p> + +<p> +He paused and thought of the money he carried. It was almost too early even for +Christian seriously to fear robbery; nevertheless he took a precaution which +ever since his boyhood he had adopted whenever he carried more than two or +three shillings upon his person—a precaution somewhat like that of the +owner of the Pitt Diamond when filled with similar misgivings. He took off his +boots, untied the guineas, and emptied the contents of one little bag into the +right boot, and of the other into the left, spreading them as flatly as +possible over the bottom of each, which was really a spacious coffer by no +means limited to the size of the foot. Pulling them on again and lacing them to +the very top, he proceeded on his way, more easy in his head than under his +soles. +</p> + +<p> +His path converged towards that of the noisy company, and on coming nearer he +found to his relief that they were several Egdon people whom he knew very well, +while with them walked Fairway, of Blooms-End. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Christian going too?” said Fairway as soon as he recognized +the newcomer. “You’ve got no young woman nor wife to your name to +gie a gown-piece to, I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“What d’ye mean?” said Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the raffle. The one we go to every year. Going to the raffle as +well as ourselves?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never knew a word o’t. Is it like cudgel playing or other sportful +forms of bloodshed? I don’t want to go, thank you, Mister Fairway, and no +offence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Christian don’t know the fun o’t, and ’twould be a +fine sight for him,” said a buxom woman. “There’s no danger +at all, Christian. Every man puts in a shilling apiece, and one wins a +gown-piece for his wife or sweetheart if he’s got one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as that’s not my fortune there’s no meaning in it to +me. But I should like to see the fun, if there’s nothing of the black art +in it, and if a man may look on without cost or getting into any dangerous +wrangle?” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no uproar at all,” said Timothy. “Sure, +Christian, if you’d like to come we’ll see there’s no harm +done.” +</p> + +<p> +“And no ba’dy gaieties, I suppose? You see, neighbours, if so, it +would be setting father a bad example, as he is so light moral’d. But a +gown-piece for a shilling, and no black art—’tis worth looking in +to see, and it wouldn’t hinder me half an hour. Yes, I’ll come, if +you’ll step a little way towards Mistover with me afterwards, supposing +night should have closed in, and nobody else is going that way?” +</p> + +<p> +One or two promised; and Christian, diverging from his direct path, turned +round to the right with his companions towards the Quiet Woman. +</p> + +<p> +When they entered the large common room of the inn they found assembled there +about ten men from among the neighbouring population, and the group was +increased by the new contingent to double that number. Most of them were +sitting round the room in seats divided by wooden elbows like those of crude +cathedral stalls, which were carved with the initials of many an illustrious +drunkard of former times who had passed his days and his nights between them, +and now lay as an alcoholic cinder in the nearest churchyard. Among the cups on +the long table before the sitters lay an open parcel of light drapery—the +gown-piece, as it was called—which was to be raffled for. Wildeve was +standing with his back to the fireplace smoking a cigar; and the promoter of +the raffle, a packman from a distant town, was expatiating upon the value of +the fabric as material for a summer dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, gentlemen,” he continued, as the newcomers drew up to the +table, “there’s five have entered, and we want four more to make up +the number. I think, by the faces of those gentlemen who have just come in, +that they are shrewd enough to take advantage of this rare opportunity of +beautifying their ladies at a very trifling expense.” +</p> + +<p> +Fairway, Sam, and another placed their shillings on the table, and the man +turned to Christian. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said Christian, drawing back, with a quick gaze of +misgiving. “I am only a poor chap come to look on, an it please ye, sir. +I don’t so much as know how you do it. If so be I was sure of getting it +I would put down the shilling; but I couldn’t otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you might almost be sure,” said the pedlar. “In +fact, now I look into your face, even if I can’t say you are sure to win, +I can say that I never saw anything look more like winning in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll anyhow have the same chance as the rest of us,” said +Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“And the extra luck of being the last comer,” said another. +</p> + +<p> +“And I was born wi’ a caul, and perhaps can be no more ruined than +drowned?” Christian added, beginning to give way. +</p> + +<p> +Ultimately Christian laid down his shilling, the raffle began, and the dice +went round. When it came to Christian’s turn he took the box with a +trembling hand, shook it fearfully, and threw a pair-royal. Three of the others +had thrown common low pairs, and all the rest mere points. +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman looked like winning, as I said,” observed the +chapman blandly. “Take it, sir; the article is yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haw-haw-haw!” said Fairway. “I’m damned if this +isn’t the quarest start that ever I knowed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine?” asked Christian, with a vacant stare from his target eyes. +“I—I haven’t got neither maid, wife, nor widder belonging to +me at all, and I’m afeard it will make me laughed at to ha’e it, +Master Traveller. What with being curious to join in I never thought of that! +What shall I do wi’ a woman’s clothes in <i>my</i> bedroom, and not +lose my decency!” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep ’em, to be sure,” said Fairway, “if it is only +for luck. Perhaps ’twill tempt some woman that thy poor carcase had no +power over when standing empty-handed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep it, certainly,” said Wildeve, who had idly watched the scene +from a distance. +</p> + +<p> +The table was then cleared of the articles, and the men began to drink. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to be sure!” said Christian, half to himself. “To +think I should have been born so lucky as this, and not have found it out until +now! What curious creatures these dice be—powerful rulers of us all, and +yet at my command! I am sure I never need be afeared of anything after +this.” He handled the dice fondly one by one. “Why, sir,” he +said in a confidential whisper to Wildeve, who was near his left hand, +“if I could only use this power that’s in me of multiplying money I +might do some good to a near relation of yours, seeing what I’ve got +about me of hers—eh?” He tapped one of his money-laden boots upon +the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a secret. Well, I must be going now.” He looked +anxiously towards Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” Wildeve asked. +</p> + +<p> +“To Mistover Knap. I have to see Mrs. Thomasin there—that’s +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going there, too, to fetch Mrs. Wildeve. We can walk +together.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve became lost in thought, and a look of inward illumination came into his +eyes. It was money for his wife that Mrs. Yeobright could not trust him with. +“Yet she could trust this fellow,” he said to himself. “Why +doesn’t that which belongs to the wife belong to the husband too?” +</p> + +<p> +He called to the pot-boy to bring him his hat, and said, “Now, Christian, +I am ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Wildeve,” said Christian timidly, as he turned to leave the +room, “would you mind lending me them wonderful little things that carry +my luck inside ’em, that I might practise a bit by myself, you +know?” He looked wistfully at the dice and box lying on the mantlepiece. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” said Wildeve carelessly. “They were only cut out +by some lad with his knife, and are worth nothing.” And Christian went +back and privately pocketed them. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve opened the door and looked out. The night was warm and cloudy. +“By Gad! ’tis dark,” he continued. “But I suppose we +shall find our way.” +</p> + +<p> +“If we should lose the path it might be awkward,” said Christian. +“A lantern is the only shield that will make it safe for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s have a lantern by all means.” The stable lantern was +fetched and lighted. Christian took up his gownpiece, and the two set out to +ascend the hill. +</p> + +<p> +Within the room the men fell into chat till their attention was for a moment +drawn to the chimney-corner. This was large, and, in addition to its proper +recess, contained within its jambs, like many on Egdon, a receding seat, so +that a person might sit there absolutely unobserved, provided there was no fire +to light him up, as was the case now and throughout the summer. From the niche +a single object protruded into the light from the candles on the table. It was +a clay pipe, and its colour was reddish. The men had been attracted to this +object by a voice behind the pipe asking for a light. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my life, it fairly startled me when the man spoke!” said +Fairway, handing a candle. “Oh—’tis the reddleman! +You’ve kept a quiet tongue, young man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I had nothing to say,” observed Venn. In a few minutes he +arose and wished the company good night. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Wildeve and Christian had plunged into the heath. +</p> + +<p> +It was a stagnant, warm, and misty night, full of all the heavy perfumes of new +vegetation not yet dried by hot sun, and among these particularly the scent of +the fern. The lantern, dangling from Christian’s hand, brushed the +feathery fronds in passing by, disturbing moths and other winged insects, which +flew out and alighted upon its horny panes. +</p> + +<p> +“So you have money to carry to Mrs. Wildeve?” said +Christian’s companion, after a silence. “Don’t you think it +very odd that it shouldn’t be given to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“As man and wife be one flesh, ’twould have been all the same, I +should think,” said Christian. “But my strict documents was, to +give the money into Mrs. Wildeve’s hand—and ’tis well to do +things right.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” said Wildeve. Any person who had known the +circumstances might have perceived that Wildeve was mortified by the discovery +that the matter in transit was money, and not, as he had supposed when at +Blooms-End, some fancy nick-nack which only interested the two women +themselves. Mrs. Yeobright’s refusal implied that his honour was not +considered to be of sufficiently good quality to make him a safer bearer of his +wife’s property. +</p> + +<p> +“How very warm it is tonight, Christian!” he said, panting, when +they were nearly under Rainbarrow. “Let us sit down for a few minutes, +for Heaven’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve flung himself down on the soft ferns; and Christian, placing the +lantern and parcel on the ground, perched himself in a cramped position hard +by, his knees almost touching his chin. He presently thrust one hand into his +coat-pocket and began shaking it about. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you rattling in there?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Only the dice, sir,” said Christian, quickly withdrawing his hand. +“What magical machines these little things be, Mr. Wildeve! ’Tis a +game I should never get tired of. Would you mind my taking ’em out and +looking at ’em for a minute, to see how they are made? I didn’t +like to look close before the other men, for fear they should think it bad +manners in me.” Christian took them out and examined them in the hollow +of his hand by the lantern light. “That these little things should carry +such luck, and such charm, and such a spell, and such power in ’em, +passes all I ever heard or zeed,” he went on, with a fascinated gaze at +the dice, which, as is frequently the case in country places, were made of +wood, the points being burnt upon each face with the end of a wire. +</p> + +<p> +“They are a great deal in a small compass, You think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Do ye suppose they really be the devil’s playthings, Mr. +Wildeve? If so, ’tis no good sign that I be such a lucky man.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to win some money, now that you’ve got them. Any woman +would marry you then. Now is your time, Christian, and I would recommend you +not to let it slip. Some men are born to luck, some are not. I belong to the +latter class.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever know anybody who was born to it besides myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes. I once heard of an Italian, who sat down at a gaming table with +only a louis, (that’s a foreign sovereign), in his pocket. He played on +for twenty-four hours, and won ten thousand pounds, stripping the bank he had +played against. Then there was another man who had lost a thousand pounds, and +went to the broker’s next day to sell stock, that he might pay the debt. +The man to whom he owed the money went with him in a hackney-coach; and to pass +the time they tossed who should pay the fare. The ruined man won, and the other +was tempted to continue the game, and they played all the way. When the +coachman stopped he was told to drive home again: the whole thousand pounds had +been won back by the man who was going to sell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha—ha—splendid!” exclaimed Christian. “Go +on—go on!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there was a man of London, who was only a waiter at White’s +clubhouse. He began playing first half-crown stakes, and then higher and +higher, till he became very rich, got an appointment in India, and rose to be +Governor of Madras. His daughter married a member of Parliament, and the Bishop +of Carlisle stood godfather to one of the children.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful! wonderful!” +</p> + +<p> +“And once there was a young man in America who gambled till he had lost +his last dollar. He staked his watch and chain, and lost as before; staked his +umbrella, lost again; staked his hat, lost again; staked his coat and stood in +his shirt-sleeves, lost again. Began taking off his breeches, and then a +looker-on gave him a trifle for his pluck. With this he won. Won back his coat, +won back his hat, won back his umbrella, his watch, his money, and went out of +the door a rich man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ’tis too good—it takes away my breath! Mr. Wildeve, I +think I will try another shilling with you, as I am one of that sort; no danger +can come o’t, and you can afford to lose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Wildeve, rising. Searching about with the +lantern, he found a large flat stone, which he placed between himself and +Christian, and sat down again. The lantern was opened to give more light, and +its rays directed upon the stone. Christian put down a shilling, Wildeve +another, and each threw. Christian won. They played for two, Christian won +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us try four,” said Wildeve. They played for four. This time +the stakes were won by Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, those little accidents will, of course, sometimes happen, to the +luckiest man,” he observed. +</p> + +<p> +“And now I have no more money!” explained Christian excitedly. +“And yet, if I could go on, I should get it back again, and more. I wish +this was mine.” He struck his boot upon the ground, so that the guineas +chinked within. +</p> + +<p> +“What! you have not put Mrs. Wildeve’s money there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. ’Tis for safety. Is it any harm to raffle with a married +lady’s money when, if I win, I shall only keep my winnings, and give her +her own all the same; and if t’other man wins, her money will go to the +lawful owner?” +</p> + +<p> +“None at all.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve had been brooding ever since they started on the mean estimation in +which he was held by his wife’s friends; and it cut his heart severely. +As the minutes passed he had gradually drifted into a revengeful intention +without knowing the precise moment of forming it. This was to teach Mrs. +Yeobright a lesson, as he considered it to be; in other words, to show her if +he could that her niece’s husband was the proper guardian of her +niece’s money. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, here goes!” said Christian, beginning to unlace one boot. +“I shall dream of it nights and nights, I suppose; but I shall always +swear my flesh don’t crawl when I think o’t!” +</p> + +<p> +He thrust his hand into the boot and withdrew one of poor Thomasin’s +precious guineas, piping hot. Wildeve had already placed a sovereign on the +stone. The game was then resumed. Wildeve won first, and Christian ventured +another, winning himself this time. The game fluctuated, but the average was in +Wildeve’s favour. Both men became so absorbed in the game that they took +no heed of anything but the pigmy objects immediately beneath their eyes, the +flat stone, the open lantern, the dice, and the few illuminated fern-leaves +which lay under the light, were the whole world to them. +</p> + +<p> +At length Christian lost rapidly; and presently, to his horror, the whole fifty +guineas belonging to Thomasin had been handed over to his adversary. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care—I don’t care!” he moaned, and +desperately set about untying his left boot to get at the other fifty. +“The devil will toss me into the flames on his three-pronged fork for +this night’s work, I know! But perhaps I shall win yet, and then +I’ll get a wife to sit up with me o’ nights and I won’t be +afeard, I won’t! Here’s another for’ee, my man!” He +slapped another guinea down upon the stone, and the dice-box was rattled again. +</p> + +<p> +Time passed on. Wildeve began to be as excited as Christian himself. When +commencing the game his intention had been nothing further than a bitter +practical joke on Mrs. Yeobright. To win the money, fairly or otherwise, and to +hand it contemptuously to Thomasin in her aunt’s presence, had been the +dim outline of his purpose. But men are drawn from their intentions even in the +course of carrying them out, and it was extremely doubtful, by the time the +twentieth guinea had been reached, whether Wildeve was conscious of any other +intention than that of winning for his own personal benefit. Moreover, he was +now no longer gambling for his wife’s money, but for Yeobright’s; +though of this fact Christian, in his apprehensiveness, did not inform him till +afterwards. +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly eleven o’clock, when, with almost a shriek, Christian +placed Yeobright’s last gleaming guinea upon the stone. In thirty seconds +it had gone the way of its companions. +</p> + +<p> +Christian turned and flung himself on the ferns in a convulsion of remorse, +“O, what shall I do with my wretched self?” he groaned. “What +shall I do? Will any good Heaven hae mercy upon my wicked soul?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do? Live on just the same.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t live on just the same! I’ll die! I say you are +a—a——” +</p> + +<p> +“A man sharper than my neighbour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a man sharper than my neighbour; a regular sharper!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor chips-in-porridge, you are very unmannerly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that! And I say you be unmannerly! You’ve +got money that isn’t your own. Half the guineas are poor Mr. +Clym’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I had to gie fifty of ’em to him. Mrs. Yeobright said +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh?... Well, ’twould have been more graceful of her to have given +them to his wife Eustacia. But they are in my hands now.” +</p> + +<p> +Christian pulled on his boots, and with heavy breathings, which could be heard +to some distance, dragged his limbs together, arose, and tottered away out of +sight. Wildeve set about shutting the lantern to return to the house, for he +deemed it too late to go to Mistover to meet his wife, who was to be driven +home in the captain’s four-wheel. While he was closing the little horn +door a figure rose from behind a neighbouring bush and came forward into the +lantern light. It was the reddleman approaching. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>VIII.<br /> +A New Force Disturbs the Current</h2> + +<p> +Wildeve stared. Venn looked coolly towards Wildeve, and, without a word being +spoken, he deliberately sat himself down where Christian had been seated, +thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out a sovereign, and laid it on the +stone. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been watching us from behind that bush?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman nodded. “Down with your stake,” he said. “Or +haven’t you pluck enough to go on?” +</p> + +<p> +Now, gambling is a species of amusement which is much more easily begun with +full pockets than left off with the same; and though Wildeve in a cooler temper +might have prudently declined this invitation, the excitement of his recent +success carried him completely away. He placed one of the guineas on a slab +beside the reddleman’s sovereign. “Mine is a guinea,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“A guinea that’s not your own,” said Venn sarcastically. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my own,” answered Wildeve haughtily. “It is my +wife’s, and what is hers is mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; let’s make a beginning.” He shook the box, and +threw eight, ten, and nine; the three casts amounted to twenty-seven. +</p> + +<p> +This encouraged Wildeve. He took the box; and his three casts amounted to +forty-five. +</p> + +<p> +Down went another of the reddleman’s sovereigns against his first one +which Wildeve laid. This time Wildeve threw fifty-one points, but no pair. The +reddleman looked grim, threw a raffle of aces, and pocketed the stakes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are again,” said Wildeve contemptuously. “Double +the stakes.” He laid two of Thomasin’s guineas, and the reddleman +his two pounds. Venn won again. New stakes were laid on the stone, and the +gamblers proceeded as before. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve was a nervous and excitable man, and the game was beginning to tell +upon his temper. He writhed, fumed, shifted his seat, and the beating of his +heart was almost audible. Venn sat with lips impassively closed and eyes +reduced to a pair of unimportant twinkles; he scarcely appeared to breathe. He +might have been an Arab, or an automaton; he would have been like a red +sandstone statue but for the motion of his arm with the dice-box. +</p> + +<p> +The game fluctuated, now in favour of one, now in favour of the other, without +any great advantage on the side of either. Nearly twenty minutes were passed +thus. The light of the candle had by this time attracted heath-flies, moths, +and other winged creatures of night, which floated round the lantern, flew into +the flame, or beat about the faces of the two players. +</p> + +<p> +But neither of the men paid much attention to these things, their eyes being +concentrated upon the little flat stone, which to them was an arena vast and +important as a battlefield. By this time a change had come over the game; the +reddleman won continually. At length sixty guineas—Thomasin’s +fifty, and ten of Clym’s—had passed into his hands. Wildeve was +reckless, frantic, exasperated. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Won back his coat,’” said Venn slily. +</p> + +<p> +Another throw, and the money went the same way. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Won back his hat,’” continued Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, oh!” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Won back his watch, won back his money, and went out of the door +a rich man,’” added Venn sentence by sentence, as stake after stake +passed over to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Five more!” shouted Wildeve, dashing down the money. “And +three casts be hanged—one shall decide.” +</p> + +<p> +The red automaton opposite lapsed into silence, nodded, and followed his +example. Wildeve rattled the box, and threw a pair of sixes and five points. He +clapped his hands; “I have done it this time—hurrah!” +</p> + +<p> +“There are two playing, and only one has thrown,” said the +reddleman, quietly bringing down the box. The eyes of each were then so +intently converged upon the stone that one could fancy their beams were +visible, like rays in a fog. +</p> + +<p> +Venn lifted the box, and behold a triplet of sixes was disclosed. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve was full of fury. While the reddleman was grasping the stakes Wildeve +seized the dice and hurled them, box and all, into the darkness, uttering a +fearful imprecation. Then he arose and began stamping up and down like a +madman. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all over, then?” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” cried Wildeve. “I mean to have another chance yet. +I must!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my good man, what have you done with the dice?” +</p> + +<p> +“I threw them away—it was a momentary irritation. What a fool I am! +Here—come and help me to look for them—we must find them +again.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve snatched up the lantern and began anxiously prowling among the furze +and fern. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not likely to find them there,” said Venn, following. +“What did you do such a crazy thing as that for? Here’s the box. +The dice can’t be far off.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve turned the light eagerly upon the spot where Venn had found the box, +and mauled the herbage right and left. In the course of a few minutes one of +the dice was found. They searched on for some time, but no other was to be +seen. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind,” said Wildeve; “let’s play with +one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Agreed,” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +Down they sat again, and recommenced with single guinea stakes; and the play +went on smartly. But Fortune had unmistakably fallen in love with the reddleman +tonight. He won steadily, till he was the owner of fourteen more of the gold +pieces. Seventy-nine of the hundred guineas were his, Wildeve possessing only +twenty-one. The aspect of the two opponents was now singular. Apart from +motions, a complete diorama of the fluctuations of the game went on in their +eyes. A diminutive candle-flame was mirrored in each pupil, and it would have +been possible to distinguish therein between the moods of hope and the moods of +abandonment, even as regards the reddleman, though his facial muscles betrayed +nothing at all. Wildeve played on with the recklessness of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” he suddenly exclaimed, hearing a rustle; and +they both looked up. +</p> + +<p> +They were surrounded by dusky forms between four and five feet high, standing a +few paces beyond the rays of the lantern. A moment’s inspection revealed +that the encircling figures were heath-croppers, their heads being all towards +the players, at whom they gazed intently. +</p> + +<p> +“Hoosh!” said Wildeve, and the whole forty or fifty animals at once +turned and galloped away. Play was again resumed. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes passed away. Then a large death’s head moth advanced from the +obscure outer air, wheeled twice round the lantern, flew straight at the +candle, and extinguished it by the force of the blow. Wildeve had just thrown, +but had not lifted the box to see what he had cast; and now it was impossible. +</p> + +<p> +“What the infernal!” he shrieked. “Now, what shall we do? +Perhaps I have thrown six—have you any matches?” +</p> + +<p> +“None,” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“Christian had some—I wonder where he is. Christian!” +</p> + +<p> +But there was no reply to Wildeve’s shout, save a mournful whining from +the herons which were nesting lower down the vale. Both men looked blankly +round without rising. As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness they +perceived faint greenish points of light among the grass and fern. These lights +dotted the hillside like stars of a low magnitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—glowworms,” said Wildeve. “Wait a minute. We can +continue the game.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn sat still, and his companion went hither and thither till he had gathered +thirteen glowworms—as many as he could find in a space of four or five +minutes—upon a fox-glove leaf which he pulled for the purpose. The +reddleman vented a low humorous laugh when he saw his adversary return with +these. “Determined to go on, then?” he said drily. +</p> + +<p> +“I always am!” said Wildeve angrily. And shaking the glowworms from +the leaf he ranged them with a trembling hand in a circle on the stone, leaving +a space in the middle for the descent of the dice-box, over which the thirteen +tiny lamps threw a pale phosphoric shine. The game was again renewed. It +happened to be that season of the year at which glowworms put forth their +greatest brilliancy, and the light they yielded was more than ample for the +purpose, since it is possible on such nights to read the handwriting of a +letter by the light of two or three. +</p> + +<p> +The incongruity between the men’s deeds and their environment was great. +Amid the soft juicy vegetation of the hollow in which they sat, the motionless +and the uninhabited solitude, intruded the chink of guineas, the rattle of +dice, the exclamations of the reckless players. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve had lifted the box as soon as the lights were obtained, and the +solitary die proclaimed that the game was still against him. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t play any more—you’ve been tampering with the +dice,” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +“How—when they were your own?” said the reddleman. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll change the game: the lowest point shall win the +stake—it may cut off my ill luck. Do you refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—go on,” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“O, there they are again—damn them!” cried Wildeve, looking +up. The heath-croppers had returned noiselessly, and were looking on with erect +heads just as before, their timid eyes fixed upon the scene, as if they were +wondering what mankind and candlelight could have to do in these haunts at this +untoward hour. +</p> + +<p> +“What a plague those creatures are—staring at me so!” he +said, and flung a stone, which scattered them; when the game was continued as +before. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve had now ten guineas left; and each laid five. Wildeve threw three +points; Venn two, and raked in the coins. The other seized the die, and +clenched his teeth upon it in sheer rage, as if he would bite it in pieces. +“Never give in—here are my last five!” he cried, throwing +them down. “Hang the glowworms—they are going out. Why don’t +you burn, you little fools? Stir them up with a thorn.” +</p> + +<p> +He probed the glowworms with a bit of stick, and rolled them over, till the +bright side of their tails was upwards. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s light enough. Throw on,” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve brought down the box within the shining circle and looked eagerly. He +had thrown ace. “Well done!—I said it would turn, and it has +turned.” Venn said nothing; but his hand shook slightly. +</p> + +<p> +He threw ace also. +</p> + +<p> +“O!” said Wildeve. “Curse me!” +</p> + +<p> +The die smacked the stone a second time. It was ace again. Venn looked gloomy, +threw—the die was seen to be lying in two pieces, the cleft sides +uppermost. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve thrown nothing at all,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Serves me right—I split the die with my teeth. Here—take +your money. Blank is less than one.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take it, I say—you’ve won it!” And Wildeve threw the +stakes against the reddleman’s chest. Venn gathered them up, arose, and +withdrew from the hollow, Wildeve sitting stupefied. +</p> + +<p> +When he had come to himself he also arose, and, with the extinguished lantern +in his hand, went towards the highroad. On reaching it he stood still. The +silence of night pervaded the whole heath except in one direction; and that was +towards Mistover. There he could hear the noise of light wheels, and presently +saw two carriagelamps descending the hill. Wildeve screened himself under a +bush and waited. +</p> + +<p> +The vehicle came on and passed before him. It was a hired carriage, and behind +the coachman were two persons whom he knew well. There sat Eustacia and +Yeobright, the arm of the latter being round her waist. They turned the sharp +corner at the bottom towards the temporary home which Clym had hired and +furnished, about five miles to the eastward. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve forgot the loss of the money at the sight of his lost love, whose +preciousness in his eyes was increasing in geometrical progression with each +new incident that reminded him of their hopeless division. Brimming with the +subtilized misery that he was capable of feeling, he followed the opposite way +towards the inn. +</p> + +<p> +About the same moment that Wildeve stepped into the highway Venn also had +reached it at a point a hundred yards further on; and he, hearing the same +wheels, likewise waited till the carriage should come up. When he saw who sat +therein he seemed to be disappointed. Reflecting a minute or two, during which +interval the carriage rolled on, he crossed the road, and took a short cut +through the furze and heath to a point where the turnpike road bent round in +ascending a hill. He was now again in front of the carriage, which presently +came up at a walking pace. Venn stepped forward and showed himself. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia started when the lamp shone upon him, and Clym’s arm was +involuntarily withdrawn from her waist. He said, “What, Diggory? You are +having a lonely walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—I beg your pardon for stopping you,” said Venn. +“But I am waiting about for Mrs. Wildeve: I have something to give her +from Mrs. Yeobright. Can you tell me if she’s gone home from the party +yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But she will be leaving soon. You may possibly meet her at the +corner.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn made a farewell obeisance, and walked back to his former position, where +the byroad from Mistover joined the highway. Here he remained fixed for nearly +half an hour, and then another pair of lights came down the hill. It was the +old-fashioned wheeled nondescript belonging to the captain, and Thomasin sat in +it alone, driven by Charley. +</p> + +<p> +The reddleman came up as they slowly turned the corner. “I beg pardon for +stopping you, Mrs. Wildeve,” he said. “But I have something to give +you privately from Mrs. Yeobright.” He handed a small parcel; it +consisted of the hundred guineas he had just won, roughly twisted up in a piece +of paper. +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin recovered from her surprise, and took the packet. “That’s +all, ma’am—I wish you good night,” he said, and vanished from +her view. +</p> + +<p> +Thus Venn, in his anxiety to rectify matters, had placed in Thomasin’s +hands not only the fifty guineas which rightly belonged to her, but also the +fifty intended for her cousin Clym. His mistake had been based upon +Wildeve’s words at the opening of the game, when he indignantly denied +that the guinea was not his own. It had not been comprehended by the reddleman +that at halfway through the performance the game was continued with the money +of another person; and it was an error which afterwards helped to cause more +misfortune than treble the loss in money value could have done. +</p> + +<p> +The night was now somewhat advanced; and Venn plunged deeper into the heath, +till he came to a ravine where his van was standing—a spot not more than +two hundred yards from the site of the gambling bout. He entered this movable +home of his, lit his lantern, and, before closing his door for the night, stood +reflecting on the circumstances of the preceding hours. While he stood the dawn +grew visible in the northeast quarter of the heavens, which, the clouds having +cleared off, was bright with a soft sheen at this midsummer time, though it was +only between one and two o’clock. Venn, thoroughly weary, then shut his +door and flung himself down to sleep. +</p> +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book04"></a>BOOK FOURTH—THE CLOSED DOOR</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>I.<br /> +The Rencounter by the Pool</h2> + +<p> +The July sun shone over Egdon and fired its crimson heather to scarlet. It was +the one season of the year, and the one weather of the season, in which the +heath was gorgeous. This flowering period represented the second or noontide +division in the cycle of those superficial changes which alone were possible +here; it followed the green or young-fern period, representing the morn, and +preceded the brown period, when the heathbells and ferns would wear the russet +tinges of evening; to be in turn displaced by the dark hue of the winter +period, representing night. +</p> + +<p> +Clym and Eustacia, in their little house at Alderworth, beyond East Egdon, were +living on with a monotony which was delightful to them. The heath and changes +of weather were quite blotted out from their eyes for the present. They were +enclosed in a sort of luminous mist, which hid from them surroundings of any +inharmonious colour, and gave to all things the character of light. When it +rained they were charmed, because they could remain indoors together all day +with such a show of reason; when it was fine they were charmed, because they +could sit together on the hills. They were like those double stars which +revolve round and round each other, and from a distance appear to be one. The +absolute solitude in which they lived intensified their reciprocal thoughts; +yet some might have said that it had the disadvantage of consuming their mutual +affections at a fearfully prodigal rate. Yeobright did not fear for his own +part; but recollection of Eustacia’s old speech about the evanescence of +love, now apparently forgotten by her, sometimes caused him to ask himself a +question; and he recoiled at the thought that the quality of finiteness was not +foreign to Eden. +</p> + +<p> +When three or four weeks had been passed thus, Yeobright resumed his reading in +earnest. To make up for lost time he studied indefatigably, for he wished to +enter his new profession with the least possible delay. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Eustacia’s dream had always been that, once married to Clym, she +would have the power of inducing him to return to Paris. He had carefully +withheld all promise to do so; but would he be proof against her coaxing and +argument? She had calculated to such a degree on the probability of success +that she had represented Paris, and not Budmouth, to her grandfather as in all +likelihood their future home. Her hopes were bound up in this dream. In the +quiet days since their marriage, when Yeobright had been poring over her lips, +her eyes, and the lines of her face, she had mused and mused on the subject, +even while in the act of returning his gaze; and now the sight of the books, +indicating a future which was antagonistic to her dream, struck her with a +positively painful jar. She was hoping for the time when, as the mistress of +some pretty establishment, however small, near a Parisian Boulevard, she would +be passing her days on the skirts at least of the gay world, and catching stray +wafts from those town pleasures she was so well fitted to enjoy. Yet Yeobright +was as firm in the contrary intention as if the tendency of marriage were +rather to develop the fantasies of young philanthropy than to sweep them away. +</p> + +<p> +Her anxiety reached a high pitch; but there was something in Clym’s +undeviating manner which made her hesitate before sounding him on the subject. +At this point in their experience, however, an incident helped her. It occurred +one evening about six weeks after their union, and arose entirely out of the +unconscious misapplication of Venn of the fifty guineas intended for Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +A day or two after the receipt of the money Thomasin had sent a note to her +aunt to thank her. She had been surprised at the largeness of the amount; but +as no sum had ever been mentioned she set that down to her late uncle’s +generosity. She had been strictly charged by her aunt to say nothing to her +husband of this gift; and Wildeve, as was natural enough, had not brought +himself to mention to his wife a single particular of the midnight scene in the +heath. Christian’s terror, in like manner, had tied his tongue on the +share he took in that proceeding; and hoping that by some means or other the +money had gone to its proper destination, he simply asserted as much, without +giving details. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore, when a week or two had passed away, Mrs. Yeobright began to wonder +why she never heard from her son of the receipt of the present; and to add +gloom to her perplexity came the possibility that resentment might be the cause +of his silence. She could hardly believe as much, but why did he not write? She +questioned Christian, and the confusion in his answers would at once have led +her to believe that something was wrong, had not one-half of his story been +corroborated by Thomasin’s note. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright was in this state of uncertainty when she was informed one +morning that her son’s wife was visiting her grandfather at Mistover. She +determined to walk up the hill, see Eustacia, and ascertain from her +daughter-in-law’s lips whether the family guineas, which were to Mrs. +Yeobright what family jewels are to wealthier dowagers, had miscarried or not. +</p> + +<p> +When Christian learnt where she was going his concern reached its height. At +the moment of her departure he could prevaricate no longer, and, confessing to +the gambling, told her the truth as far as he knew it—that the guineas +had been won by Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“What, is he going to keep them?” Mrs. Yeobright cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope and trust not!” moaned Christian. “He’s a good +man, and perhaps will do right things. He said you ought to have gied Mr. +Clym’s share to Eustacia, and that’s perhaps what he’ll do +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +To Mrs. Yeobright, as soon as she could calmly reflect, there was much +likelihood in this, for she could hardly believe that Wildeve would really +appropriate money belonging to her son. The intermediate course of giving it to +Eustacia was the sort of thing to please Wildeve’s fancy. But it filled +the mother with anger none the less. That Wildeve should have got command of +the guineas after all, and should rearrange the disposal of them, placing +Clym’s share in Clym’s wife’s hands, because she had been his +own sweetheart, and might be so still, was as irritating a pain as any that +Mrs. Yeobright had ever borne. +</p> + +<p> +She instantly dismissed the wretched Christian from her employ for his conduct +in the affair; but, feeling quite helpless and unable to do without him, told +him afterwards that he might stay a little longer if he chose. Then she +hastened off to Eustacia, moved by a much less promising emotion towards her +daughter-in-law than she had felt half an hour earlier, when planning her +journey. At that time it was to inquire in a friendly spirit if there had been +any accidental loss; now it was to ask plainly if Wildeve had privately given +her money which had been intended as a sacred gift to Clym. +</p> + +<p> +She started at two o’clock, and her meeting with Eustacia was hastened by +the appearance of the young lady beside the pool and bank which bordered her +grandfather’s premises, where she stood surveying the scene, and perhaps +thinking of the romantic enactments it had witnessed in past days. When Mrs. +Yeobright approached, Eustacia surveyed her with the calm stare of a stranger. +</p> + +<p> +The mother-in-law was the first to speak. “I was coming to see +you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said Eustacia with surprise, for Mrs. Yeobright, much to +the girl’s mortification, had refused to be present at the wedding. +“I did not at all expect you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was coming on business only,” said the visitor, more coldly than +at first. “Will you excuse my asking this—Have you received a gift +from Thomasin’s husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“A gift?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean money!” +</p> + +<p> +“What—I myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I meant yourself, privately—though I was not going to put it +in that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Money from Mr. Wildeve? No—never! Madam, what do you mean by +that?” Eustacia fired up all too quickly, for her own consciousness of +the old attachment between herself and Wildeve led her to jump to the +conclusion that Mrs. Yeobright also knew of it, and might have come to accuse +her of receiving dishonourable presents from him now. +</p> + +<p> +“I simply ask the question,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “I have +been——” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to have better opinions of me—I feared you were against +me from the first!” exclaimed Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I was simply for Clym,” replied Mrs. Yeobright, with too much +emphasis in her earnestness. “It is the instinct of everyone to look +after their own.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you imply that he required guarding against me?” cried +Eustacia, passionate tears in her eyes. “I have not injured him by +marrying him! What sin have I done that you should think so ill of me? You had +no right to speak against me to him when I have never wronged you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only did what was fair under the circumstances,” said Mrs. +Yeobright more softly. “I would rather not have gone into this question +at present, but you compel me. I am not ashamed to tell you the honest truth. I +was firmly convinced that he ought not to marry you—therefore I tried to +dissuade him by all the means in my power. But it is done now, and I have no +idea of complaining any more. I am ready to welcome you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes, it is very well to see things in that business point of +view,” murmured Eustacia with a smothered fire of feeling. “But why +should you think there is anything between me and Mr. Wildeve? I have a spirit +as well as you. I am indignant; and so would any woman be. It was a +condescension in me to be Clym’s wife, and not a manœuvre, let me remind +you; and therefore I will not be treated as a schemer whom it becomes necessary +to bear with because she has crept into the family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Mrs. Yeobright, vainly endeavouring to control her +anger. “I have never heard anything to show that my son’s lineage +is not as good as the Vyes’—perhaps better. It is amusing to hear +you talk of condescension.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was condescension, nevertheless,” said Eustacia vehemently. +“And if I had known then what I know now, that I should be living in this +wild heath a month after my marriage, I—I should have thought twice +before agreeing.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be better not to say that; it might not sound truthful. I am +not aware that any deception was used on his part—I know there was +not—whatever might have been the case on the other side.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is too exasperating!” answered the younger woman huskily, her +face crimsoning, and her eyes darting light. “How can you dare to speak +to me like that? I insist upon repeating to you that had I known that my life +would from my marriage up to this time have been as it is, I should have said +<i>No</i>. I don’t complain. I have never uttered a sound of such a thing +to him; but it is true. I hope therefore that in the future you will be silent +on my eagerness. If you injure me now you injure yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Injure you? Do you think I am an evil-disposed person?” +</p> + +<p> +“You injured me before my marriage, and you have now suspected me of +secretly favouring another man for money!” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not help what I thought. But I have never spoken of you outside +my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke of me within it, to Clym, and you could not do worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did my duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ll do mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“A part of which will possibly be to set him against his mother. It is +always so. But why should I not bear it as others have borne it before +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you,” said Eustacia, breathless with emotion. +“You think me capable of every bad thing. Who can be worse than a wife +who encourages a lover, and poisons her husband’s mind against his +relative? Yet that is now the character given to me. Will you not come and drag +him out of my hands?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright gave back heat for heat. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t rage at me, madam! It ill becomes your beauty, and I am not +worth the injury you may do it on my account, I assure you. I am only a poor +old woman who has lost a son.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had treated me honourably you would have had him still.” +Eustacia said, while scalding tears trickled from her eyes. “You have +brought yourself to folly; you have caused a division which can never be +healed!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done nothing. This audacity from a young woman is more than I can +bear.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was asked for; you have suspected me, and you have made me speak of +my husband in a way I would not have done. You will let him know that I have +spoken thus, and it will cause misery between us. Will you go away from me? You +are no friend!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go when I have spoken a word. If anyone says I have come here to +question you without good grounds for it, that person speaks untruly. If anyone +says that I attempted to stop your marriage by any but honest means, that +person, too, does not speak the truth. I have fallen on an evil time; God has +been unjust to me in letting you insult me! Probably my son’s happiness +does not lie on this side of the grave, for he is a foolish man who neglects +the advice of his parent. You, Eustacia, stand on the edge of a precipice +without knowing it. Only show my son one-half the temper you have shown me +today—and you may before long—and you will find that though he is +as gentle as a child with you now, he can be as hard as steel!” +</p> + +<p> +The excited mother then withdrew, and Eustacia, panting, stood looking into the +pool. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>II.<br /> +He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song</h2> + +<p> +The result of that unpropitious interview was that Eustacia, instead of passing +the afternoon with her grandfather, hastily returned home to Clym, where she +arrived three hours earlier than she had been expected. +</p> + +<p> +She came indoors with her face flushed, and her eyes still showing traces of +her recent excitement. Yeobright looked up astonished; he had never seen her in +any way approaching to that state before. She passed him by, and would have +gone upstairs unnoticed, but Clym was so concerned that he immediately followed +her. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Eustacia?” he said. She was standing on the +hearthrug in the bedroom, looking upon the floor, her hands clasped in front of +her, her bonnet yet unremoved. For a moment she did not answer; and then she +replied in a low voice— +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen your mother; and I will never see her again!” +</p> + +<p> +A weight fell like a stone upon Clym. That same morning, when Eustacia had +arranged to go and see her grandfather, Clym had expressed a wish that she +would drive down to Blooms-End and inquire for her mother-in-law, or adopt any +other means she might think fit to bring about a reconciliation. She had set +out gaily; and he had hoped for much. +</p> + +<p> +“Why is this?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell—I cannot remember. I met your mother. And I will +never meet her again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do I know about Mr. Wildeve now? I won’t have wicked opinions +passed on me by anybody. O! it was too humiliating to be asked if I had +received any money from him, or encouraged him, or something of the +sort—I don’t exactly know what!” +</p> + +<p> +“How could she have asked you that?” +</p> + +<p> +“She did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there must have been some meaning in it. What did my mother say +besides?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what she said, except in so far as this, that we both +said words which can never be forgiven!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, there must be some misapprehension. Whose fault was it that her +meaning was not made clear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather not say. It may have been the fault of the circumstances, +which were awkward at the very least. O Clym—I cannot help expressing +it—this is an unpleasant position that you have placed me in. But you +must improve it—yes, say you will—for I hate it all now! Yes, take +me to Paris, and go on with your old occupation, Clym! I don’t mind how +humbly we live there at first, if it can only be Paris, and not Egdon +Heath.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have quite given up that idea,” said Yeobright, with +surprise. “Surely I never led you to expect such a thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I own it. Yet there are thoughts which cannot be kept out of mind, and +that one was mine. Must I not have a voice in the matter, now I am your wife +and the sharer of your doom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there are things which are placed beyond the pale of discussion; +and I thought this was specially so, and by mutual agreement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clym, I am unhappy at what I hear,” she said in a low voice; and +her eyes drooped, and she turned away. +</p> + +<p> +This indication of an unexpected mine of hope in Eustacia’s bosom +disconcerted her husband. It was the first time that he had confronted the fact +of the indirectness of a woman’s movement towards her desire. But his +intention was unshaken, though he loved Eustacia well. All the effect that her +remark had upon him was a resolve to chain himself more closely than ever to +his books, so as to be the sooner enabled to appeal to substantial results from +another course in arguing against her whim. +</p> + +<p> +Next day the mystery of the guineas was explained. Thomasin paid them a hurried +visit, and Clym’s share was delivered up to him by her own hands. +Eustacia was not present at the time. +</p> + +<p> +“Then this is what my mother meant,” exclaimed Clym. +“Thomasin, do you know that they have had a bitter quarrel?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a little more reticence now than formerly in Thomasin’s manner +towards her cousin. It is the effect of marriage to engender in several +directions some of the reserve it annihilates in one. “Your mother told +me,” she said quietly. “She came back to my house after seeing +Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“The worst thing I dreaded has come to pass. Was Mother much disturbed +when she came to you, Thomasin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very much indeed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym leant his elbow upon the post of the garden gate, and covered his eyes +with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t trouble about it, Clym. They may get to be friends.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head. “Not two people with inflammable natures like theirs. +Well, what must be will be.” +</p> + +<p> +“One thing is cheerful in it—the guineas are not lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather have lost them twice over than have had this +happen.” +</p> + +<p> +Amid these jarring events Yeobright felt one thing to be +indispensable—that he should speedily make some show of progress in his +scholastic plans. With this view he read far into the small hours during many +nights. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, after a severer strain than usual, he awoke with a strange +sensation in his eyes. The sun was shining directly upon the window-blind, and +at his first glance thitherward a sharp pain obliged him to close his eyelids +quickly. At every new attempt to look about him the same morbid sensibility to +light was manifested, and excoriating tears ran down his cheeks. He was obliged +to tie a bandage over his brow while dressing; and during the day it could not +be abandoned. Eustacia was thoroughly alarmed. On finding that the case was no +better the next morning they decided to send to Anglebury for a surgeon. +</p> + +<p> +Towards evening he arrived, and pronounced the disease to be acute inflammation +induced by Clym’s night studies, continued in spite of a cold previously +caught, which had weakened his eyes for the time. +</p> + +<p> +Fretting with impatience at this interruption to a task he was so anxious to +hasten, Clym was transformed into an invalid. He was shut up in a room from +which all light was excluded, and his condition would have been one of absolute +misery had not Eustacia read to him by the glimmer of a shaded lamp. He hoped +that the worst would soon be over; but at the surgeon’s third visit he +learnt to his dismay that although he might venture out of doors with shaded +eyes in the course of a month, all thought of pursuing his work, or of reading +print of any description, would have to be given up for a long time to come. +</p> + +<p> +One week and another week wore on, and nothing seemed to lighten the gloom of +the young couple. Dreadful imaginings occurred to Eustacia, but she carefully +refrained from uttering them to her husband. Suppose he should become blind, +or, at all events, never recover sufficient strength of sight to engage in an +occupation which would be congenial to her feelings, and conduce to her removal +from this lonely dwelling among the hills? That dream of beautiful Paris was +not likely to cohere into substance in the presence of this misfortune. As day +after day passed by, and he got no better, her mind ran more and more in this +mournful groove, and she would go away from him into the garden and weep +despairing tears. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright thought he would send for his mother; and then he thought he would +not. Knowledge of his state could only make her the more unhappy; and the +seclusion of their life was such that she would hardly be likely to learn the +news except through a special messenger. Endeavouring to take the trouble as +philosophically as possible, he waited on till the third week had arrived, when +he went into the open air for the first time since the attack. The surgeon +visited him again at this stage, and Clym urged him to express a distinct +opinion. The young man learnt with added surprise that the date at which he +might expect to resume his labours was as uncertain as ever, his eyes being in +that peculiar state which, though affording him sight enough for walking about, +would not admit of their being strained upon any definite object without +incurring the risk of reproducing ophthalmia in its acute form. +</p> + +<p> +Clym was very grave at the intelligence, but not despairing. A quiet firmness, +and even cheerfulness, took possession of him. He was not to be blind; that was +enough. To be doomed to behold the world through smoked glass for an indefinite +period was bad enough, and fatal to any kind of advance; but Yeobright was an +absolute stoic in the face of mishaps which only affected his social standing; +and, apart from Eustacia, the humblest walk of life would satisfy him if it +could be made to work in with some form of his culture scheme. To keep a +cottage night-school was one such form; and his affliction did not master his +spirit as it might otherwise have done. +</p> + +<p> +He walked through the warm sun westward into those tracts of Egdon with which +he was best acquainted, being those lying nearer to his old home. He saw before +him in one of the valleys the gleaming of whetted iron, and advancing, dimly +perceived that the shine came from the tool of a man who was cutting furze. The +worker recognized Clym, and Yeobright learnt from the voice that the speaker +was Humphrey. +</p> + +<p> +Humphrey expressed his sorrow at Clym’s condition, and added, “Now, +if yours was low-class work like mine, you could go on with it just the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I could,” said Yeobright musingly. “How much do you get +for cutting these faggots?” +</p> + +<p> +“Half-a-crown a hundred, and in these long days I can live very well on +the wages.” +</p> + +<p> +During the whole of Yeobright’s walk home to Alderworth he was lost in +reflections which were not of an unpleasant kind. On his coming up to the house +Eustacia spoke to him from the open window, and he went across to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling,” he said, “I am much happier. And if my mother were +reconciled to me and to you I should, I think, be happy quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear that will never be,” she said, looking afar with her +beautiful stormy eyes. “How <i>can</i> you say ‘I am +happier,’ and nothing changed?” +</p> + +<p> +“It arises from my having at last discovered something I can do, and get +a living at, in this time of misfortune.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to be a furze- and turf-cutter.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Clym!” she said, the slight hopefulness previously apparent in +her face going off again, and leaving her worse than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely I shall. Is it not very unwise in us to go on spending the little +money we’ve got when I can keep down expenditures by an honest +occupation? The outdoor exercise will do me good, and who knows but that in a +few months I shall be able to go on with my reading again?” +</p> + +<p> +“But my grandfather offers to assist us, if we require assistance.” +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t require it. If I go furze-cutting we shall be fairly well +off.” +</p> + +<p> +“In comparison with slaves, and the Israelites in Egypt, and such +people!” A bitter tear rolled down Eustacia’s face, which he did +not see. There had been nonchalance in his tone, showing her that he felt no +absolute grief at a consummation which to her was a positive horror. +</p> + +<p> +The very next day Yeobright went to Humphrey’s cottage, and borrowed of +him leggings, gloves, a whetstone, and a hook, to use till he should be able to +purchase some for himself. Then he sallied forth with his new fellow-labourer +and old acquaintance, and selecting a spot where the furze grew thickest he +struck the first blow in his adopted calling. His sight, like the wings in +Rasselas, though useless to him for his grand purpose, sufficed for this +strait, and he found that when a little practice should have hardened his palms +against blistering he would be able to work with ease. +</p> + +<p> +Day after day he rose with the sun, buckled on his leggings, and went off to +the rendezvous with Humphrey. His custom was to work from four o’clock in +the morning till noon; then, when the heat of the day was at its highest, to go +home and sleep for an hour or two; afterwards coming out again and working till +dusk at nine. +</p> + +<p> +This man from Paris was now so disguised by his leather accoutrements, and by +the goggles he was obliged to wear over his eyes, that his closest friend might +have passed by without recognizing him. He was a brown spot in the midst of an +expanse of olive-green gorse, and nothing more. Though frequently depressed in +spirit when not actually at work, owing to thoughts of Eustacia’s +position and his mother’s estrangement, when in the full swing of labour +he was cheerfully disposed and calm. +</p> + +<p> +His daily life was of a curious microscopic sort, his whole world being limited +to a circuit of a few feet from his person. His familiars were creeping and +winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their band. Bees hummed around +his ears with an intimate air, and tugged at the heath and furze-flowers at his +side in such numbers as to weigh them down to the sod. The strange +amber-coloured butterflies which Egdon produced, and which were never seen +elsewhere, quivered in the breath of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, +and sported with the glittering point of his hook as he flourished it up and +down. Tribes of emerald-green grasshoppers leaped over his feet, falling +awkwardly on their backs, heads, or hips, like unskilful acrobats, as chance +might rule; or engaged themselves in noisy flirtations under the fern-fronds +with silent ones of homely hue. Huge flies, ignorant of larders and +wire-netting, and quite in a savage state, buzzed about him without knowing +that he was a man. In and out of the fern-dells snakes glided in their most +brilliant blue and yellow guise, it being the season immediately following the +shedding of their old skins, when their colours are brightest. Litters of young +rabbits came out from their forms to sun themselves upon hillocks, the hot +beams blazing through the delicate tissue of each thin-fleshed ear, and firing +it to a blood-red transparency in which the veins could be seen. None of them +feared him. +</p> + +<p> +The monotony of his occupation soothed him, and was in itself a pleasure. A +forced limitation of effort offered a justification of homely courses to an +unambitious man, whose conscience would hardly have allowed him to remain in +such obscurity while his powers were unimpeded. Hence Yeobright sometimes sang +to himself, and when obliged to accompany Humphrey in search of brambles for +faggot-bonds he would amuse his companion with sketches of Parisian life and +character, and so while away the time. +</p> + +<p> +On one of these warm afternoons Eustacia walked out alone in the direction of +Yeobright’s place of work. He was busily chopping away at the furze, a +long row of faggots which stretched downward from his position representing the +labour of the day. He did not observe her approach, and she stood close to him, +and heard his undercurrent of song. It shocked her. To see him there, a poor +afflicted man, earning money by the sweat of his brow, had at first moved her +to tears; but to hear him sing and not at all rebel against an occupation +which, however satisfactory to himself, was degrading to her, as an educated +lady-wife, wounded her through. Unconscious of her presence, he still went on +singing:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Le point du jour<br /> +A nos bosquets rend toute leur parure;<br /> +Flore est plus belle à son retour;<br /> +L’oiseau reprend doux chant d’amour;<br /> +Tout célèbre dans la nature<br /> +Le point du jour.<br /> +<br /> +“Le point du jour<br /> +Cause parfois, cause douleur extrême;<br /> +Que l’espace des nuits est court<br /> +Pour le berger brûlant d’amour,<br /> +Forcé de quitter ce qu’il aime<br /> +Au point du jour.” +</p> + +<p> +It was bitterly plain to Eustacia that he did not care much about social +failure; and the proud fair woman bowed her head and wept in sick despair at +thought of the blasting effect upon her own life of that mood and condition in +him. Then she came forward. +</p> + +<p> +“I would starve rather than do it!” she exclaimed vehemently. +“And you can sing! I will go and live with my grandfather again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eustacia! I did not see you, though I noticed something moving,” +he said gently. He came forward, pulled off his huge leather glove, and took +her hand. “Why do you speak in such a strange way? It is only a little +old song which struck my fancy when I was in Paris, and now just applies to my +life with you. Has your love for me all died, then, because my appearance is no +longer that of a fine gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest, you must not question me unpleasantly, or it may make me not +love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you believe it possible that I would run the risk of doing +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you follow out your own ideas, and won’t give in to mine +when I wish you to leave off this shameful labour. Is there anything you +dislike in me that you act so contrarily to my wishes? I am your wife, and why +will you not listen? Yes, I am your wife indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know what that tone means.” +</p> + +<p> +“What tone?” +</p> + +<p> +“The tone in which you said, ‘Your wife indeed.’ It meant, +‘Your wife, worse luck.’” +</p> + +<p> +“It is hard in you to probe me with that remark. A woman may have reason, +though she is not without heart, and if I felt ‘worse luck,’ it was +no ignoble feeling—it was only too natural. There, you see that at any +rate I do not attempt untruths. Do you remember how, before we were married, I +warned you that I had not good wifely qualities?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mock me to say that now. On that point at least the only noble +course would be to hold your tongue, for you are still queen of me, Eustacia, +though I may no longer be king of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are my husband. Does not that content you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not unless you are my wife without regret.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot answer you. I remember saying that I should be a serious matter +on your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I saw that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you were too quick to see! No true lover would have seen any such +thing; you are too severe upon me, Clym—I won’t like your speaking +so at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I married you in spite of it, and don’t regret doing so. How +cold you seem this afternoon! and yet I used to think there never was a warmer +heart than yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I fear we are cooling—I see it as well as you,” she +sighed mournfully. “And how madly we loved two months ago! You were never +tired of contemplating me, nor I of contemplating you. Who could have thought +then that by this time my eyes would not seem so very bright to yours, nor your +lips so very sweet to mine? Two months—is it possible? Yes, ’tis +too true!” +</p> + +<p> +“You sigh, dear, as if you were sorry for it; and that’s a hopeful +sign.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I don’t sigh for that. There are other things for me to sigh +for, or any other woman in my place.” +</p> + +<p> +“That your chances in life are ruined by marrying in haste an unfortunate +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why will you force me, Clym, to say bitter things? I deserve pity as +much as you. As much?—I think I deserve it more. For you can sing! It +would be a strange hour which should catch me singing under such a cloud as +this! Believe me, sweet, I could weep to a degree that would astonish and +confound such an elastic mind as yours. Even had you felt careless about your +own affliction, you might have refrained from singing out of sheer pity for +mine. God! if I were a man in such a position I would curse rather than +sing.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright placed his hand upon her arm. “Now, don’t you suppose, my +inexperienced girl, that I cannot rebel, in high Promethean fashion, against +the gods and fate as well as you. I have felt more steam and smoke of that sort +than you have ever heard of. But the more I see of life the more do I perceive +that there is nothing particularly great in its greatest walks, and therefore +nothing particularly small in mine of furze-cutting. If I feel that the +greatest blessings vouchsafed to us are not very valuable, how can I feel it to +be any great hardship when they are taken away? So I sing to pass the time. +Have you indeed lost all tenderness for me, that you begrudge me a few cheerful +moments?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have still some tenderness left for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your words have no longer their old flavour. And so love dies with good +fortune!” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot listen to this, Clym—it will end bitterly,” she +said in a broken voice. “I will go home.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>III.<br /> +She Goes Out to Battle against Depression</h2> + +<p> +A few days later, before the month of August had expired, Eustacia and +Yeobright sat together at their early dinner. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia’s manner had become of late almost apathetic. There was a +forlorn look about her beautiful eyes which, whether she deserved it or not, +would have excited pity in the breast of anyone who had known her during the +full flush of her love for Clym. The feelings of husband and wife varied, in +some measure, inversely with their positions. Clym, the afflicted man, was +cheerful; and he even tried to comfort her, who had never felt a moment of +physical suffering in her whole life. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, brighten up, dearest; we shall be all right again. Some day +perhaps I shall see as well as ever. And I solemnly promise that I’ll +leave off cutting furze as soon as I have the power to do anything better. You +cannot seriously wish me to stay idling at home all day?” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is so dreadful—a furze-cutter! and you a man who have lived +about the world, and speak French, and German, and who are fit for what is so +much better than this.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose when you first saw me and heard about me I was wrapped in a +sort of golden halo to your eyes—a man who knew glorious things, and had +mixed in brilliant scenes—in short, an adorable, delightful, distracting +hero?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“And now I am a poor fellow in brown leather.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t taunt me. But enough of this. I will not be depressed any +more. I am going from home this afternoon, unless you greatly object. There is +to be a village picnic—a gipsying, they call it—at East Egdon, and +I shall go.” +</p> + +<p> +“To dance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? You can sing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, as you will. Must I come to fetch you?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you return soon enough from your work. But do not inconvenience +yourself about it. I know the way home, and the heath has no terror for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And can you cling to gaiety so eagerly as to walk all the way to a +village festival in search of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you don’t like my going alone! Clym, you are not +jealous?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But I would come with you if it could give you any pleasure; though, +as things stand, perhaps you have too much of me already. Still, I somehow wish +that you did not want to go. Yes, perhaps I am jealous; and who could be +jealous with more reason than I, a half-blind man, over such a woman as +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t think like it. Let me go, and don’t take all my +spirits away!” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather lose all my own, my sweet wife. Go and do whatever you +like. Who can forbid your indulgence in any whim? You have all my heart yet, I +believe; and because you bear with me, who am in truth a drag upon you, I owe +you thanks. Yes, go alone and shine. As for me, I will stick to my doom. At +that kind of meeting people would shun me. My hook and gloves are like the St. +Lazarus rattle of the leper, warning the world to get out of the way of a sight +that would sadden them.” He kissed her, put on his leggings, and went +out. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone she rested her head upon her hands and said to herself, +“Two wasted lives—his and mine. And I am come to this! Will it +drive me out of my mind?” +</p> + +<p> +She cast about for any possible course which offered the least improvement on +the existing state of things, and could find none. She imagined how all those +Budmouth ones who should learn what had become of her would say, “Look at +the girl for whom nobody was good enough!” To Eustacia the situation +seemed such a mockery of her hopes that death appeared the only door of relief +if the satire of Heaven should go much further. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she aroused herself and exclaimed, “But I’ll shake it off. +Yes, I <i>will</i> shake it off! No one shall know my suffering. I’ll be +bitterly merry, and ironically gay, and I’ll laugh in derision. And +I’ll begin by going to this dance on the green.” +</p> + +<p> +She ascended to her bedroom and dressed herself with scrupulous care. To an +onlooker her beauty would have made her feelings almost seem reasonable. The +gloomy corner into which accident as much as indiscretion had brought this +woman might have led even a moderate partisan to feel that she had cogent +reasons for asking the Supreme Power by what right a being of such exquisite +finish had been placed in circumstances calculated to make of her charms a +curse rather than a blessing. +</p> + +<p> +It was five in the afternoon when she came out from the house ready for her +walk. There was material enough in the picture for twenty new conquests. The +rebellious sadness that was rather too apparent when she sat indoors without a +bonnet was cloaked and softened by her outdoor attire, which always had a sort +of nebulousness about it, devoid of harsh edges anywhere; so that her face +looked from its environment as from a cloud, with no noticeable lines of +demarcation between flesh and clothes. The heat of the day had scarcely +declined as yet, and she went along the sunny hills at a leisurely pace, there +being ample time for her idle expedition. Tall ferns buried her in their +leafage whenever her path lay through them, which now formed miniature forests, +though not one stem of them would remain to bud the next year. +</p> + +<p> +The site chosen for the village festivity was one of the lawnlike oases which +were occasionally, yet not often, met with on the plateaux of the heath +district. The brakes of furze and fern terminated abruptly round the margin, +and the grass was unbroken. A green cattletrack skirted the spot, without, +however, emerging from the screen of fern, and this path Eustacia followed, in +order to reconnoitre the group before joining it. The lusty notes of the East +Egdon band had directed her unerringly, and she now beheld the musicians +themselves, sitting in a blue wagon with red wheels scrubbed as bright as new, +and arched with sticks, to which boughs and flowers were tied. In front of this +was the grand central dance of fifteen or twenty couples, flanked by minor +dances of inferior individuals whose gyrations were not always in strict +keeping with the tune. +</p> + +<p> +The young men wore blue and white rosettes, and with a flush on their faces +footed it to the girls, who, with the excitement and the exercise, blushed +deeper than the pink of their numerous ribbons. Fair ones with long curls, fair +ones with short curls, fair ones with lovelocks, fair ones with braids, flew +round and round; and a beholder might well have wondered how such a +prepossessing set of young women of like size, age, and disposition, could have +been collected together where there were only one or two villages to choose +from. In the background was one happy man dancing by himself, with closed eyes, +totally oblivious of all the rest. A fire was burning under a pollard thorn a +few paces off, over which three kettles hung in a row. Hard by was a table +where elderly dames prepared tea, but Eustacia looked among them in vain for +the cattle-dealer’s wife who had suggested that she should come, and had +promised to obtain a courteous welcome for her. +</p> + +<p> +This unexpected absence of the only local resident whom Eustacia knew +considerably damaged her scheme for an afternoon of reckless gaiety. Joining in +became a matter of difficulty, notwithstanding that, were she to advance, +cheerful dames would come forward with cups of tea and make much of her as a +stranger of superior grace and knowledge to themselves. Having watched the +company through the figures of two dances, she decided to walk a little +further, to a cottage where she might get some refreshment, and then return +homeward in the shady time of evening. +</p> + +<p> +This she did, and by the time that she retraced her steps towards the scene of +the gipsying, which it was necessary to repass on her way to Alderworth, the +sun was going down. The air was now so still that she could hear the band afar +off, and it seemed to be playing with more spirit, if that were possible, than +when she had come away. On reaching the hill the sun had quite disappeared; but +this made little difference either to Eustacia or to the revellers, for a round +yellow moon was rising before her, though its rays had not yet outmastered +those from the west. The dance was going on just the same, but strangers had +arrived and formed a ring around the figure, so that Eustacia could stand among +these without a chance of being recognized. +</p> + +<p> +A whole village-full of sensuous emotion, scattered abroad all the year long, +surged here in a focus for an hour. The forty hearts of those waving couples +were beating as they had not done since, twelve months before, they had come +together in similar jollity. For the time paganism was revived in their hearts, +the pride of life was all in all, and they adored none other than themselves. +</p> + +<p> +How many of those impassioned but temporary embraces were destined to become +perpetual was possibly the wonder of some of those who indulged in them, as +well as of Eustacia who looked on. She began to envy those pirouetters, to +hunger for the hope and happiness which the fascination of the dance seemed to +engender within them. Desperately fond of dancing herself, one of +Eustacia’s expectations of Paris had been the opportunity it might afford +her of indulgence in this favourite pastime. Unhappily, that expectation was +now extinct within her for ever. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst she abstractedly watched them spinning and fluctuating in the increasing +moonlight she suddenly heard her name whispered by a voice over her shoulder. +Turning in surprise, she beheld at her elbow one whose presence instantly +caused her to flush to the temples. +</p> + +<p> +It was Wildeve. Till this moment he had not met her eye since the morning of +his marriage, when she had been loitering in the church, and had startled him +by lifting her veil and coming forward to sign the register as witness. Yet why +the sight of him should have instigated that sudden rush of blood she could not +tell. +</p> + +<p> +Before she could speak he whispered, “Do you like dancing as much as +ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I do,” she replied in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you dance with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be a great change for me; but will it not seem strange?” +</p> + +<p> +“What strangeness can there be in relations dancing together?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—yes, relations. Perhaps none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, if you don’t like to be seen, pull down your veil; though +there is not much risk of being known by this light. Lots of strangers are +here.” +</p> + +<p> +She did as he suggested; and the act was a tacit acknowledgment that she +accepted his offer. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve gave her his arm and took her down on the outside of the ring to the +bottom of the dance, which they entered. In two minutes more they were involved +in the figure and began working their way upwards to the top. Till they had +advanced halfway thither Eustacia wished more than once that she had not +yielded to his request; from the middle to the top she felt that, since she had +come out to seek pleasure, she was only doing a natural thing to obtain it. +Fairly launched into the ceaseless glides and whirls which their new position +as top couple opened up to them, Eustacia’s pulses began to move too +quickly for long rumination of any kind. +</p> + +<p> +Through the length of five-and-twenty couples they threaded their giddy way, +and a new vitality entered her form. The pale ray of evening lent a fascination +to the experience. There is a certain degree and tone of light which tends to +disturb the equilibrium of the senses, and to promote dangerously the tenderer +moods; added to movement, it drives the emotions to rankness, the reason +becoming sleepy and unperceiving in inverse proportion; and this light fell now +upon these two from the disc of the moon. All the dancing girls felt the +symptoms, but Eustacia most of all. The grass under their feet became trodden +away, and the hard, beaten surface of the sod, when viewed aslant towards the +moonlight, shone like a polished table. The air became quite still, the flag +above the wagon which held the musicians clung to the pole, and the players +appeared only in outline against the sky; except when the circular mouths of +the trombone, ophicleide, and French horn gleamed out like huge eyes from the +shade of their figures. The pretty dresses of the maids lost their subtler day +colours and showed more or less of a misty white. Eustacia floated round and +round on Wildeve’s arm, her face rapt and statuesque; her soul had passed +away from and forgotten her features, which were left empty and quiescent, as +they always are when feeling goes beyond their register. +</p> + +<p> +How near she was to Wildeve! it was terrible to think of. She could feel his +breathing, and he, of course, could feel hers. How badly she had treated him! +yet, here they were treading one measure. The enchantment of the dance +surprised her. A clear line of difference divided like a tangible fence her +experience within this maze of motion from her experience without it. Her +beginning to dance had been like a change of atmosphere; outside, she had been +steeped in arctic frigidity by comparison with the tropical sensations here. +She had entered the dance from the troubled hours of her late life as one might +enter a brilliant chamber after a night walk in a wood. Wildeve by himself +would have been merely an agitation; Wildeve added to the dance, and the +moonlight, and the secrecy, began to be a delight. Whether his personality +supplied the greater part of this sweetly compounded feeling, or whether the +dance and the scene weighed the more therein, was a nice point upon which +Eustacia herself was entirely in a cloud. +</p> + +<p> +People began to say “Who are they?” but no invidious inquiries were +made. Had Eustacia mingled with the other girls in their ordinary daily walks +the case would have been different: here she was not inconvenienced by +excessive inspection, for all were wrought to their brightest grace by the +occasion. Like the planet Mercury surrounded by the lustre of sunset, her +permanent brilliancy passed without much notice in the temporary glory of the +situation. +</p> + +<p> +As for Wildeve, his feelings are easy to guess. Obstacles were a ripening sun +to his love, and he was at this moment in a delirium of exquisite misery. To +clasp as his for five minutes what was another man’s through all the rest +of the year was a kind of thing he of all men could appreciate. He had long +since begun to sigh again for Eustacia; indeed, it may be asserted that signing +the marriage register with Thomasin was the natural signal to his heart to +return to its first quarters, and that the extra complication of +Eustacia’s marriage was the one addition required to make that return +compulsory. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, for different reasons, what was to the rest an exhilarating movement was +to these two a riding upon the whirlwind. The dance had come like an +irresistible attack upon whatever sense of social order there was in their +minds, to drive them back into old paths which were now doubly irregular. +Through three dances in succession they spun their way; and then, fatigued with +the incessant motion, Eustacia turned to quit the circle in which she had +already remained too long. Wildeve led her to a grassy mound a few yards +distant, where she sat down, her partner standing beside her. From the time +that he addressed her at the beginning of the dance till now they had not +exchanged a word. +</p> + +<p> +“The dance and the walking have tired you?” he said tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“No; not greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is strange that we should have met here of all places, after missing +each other so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have missed because we tried to miss, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But you began that proceeding—by breaking a promise.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is scarcely worth while to talk of that now. We have formed other +ties since then—you no less than I.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear that your husband is ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not ill—only incapacitated.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—that is what I mean. I sincerely sympathize with you in your +trouble. Fate has treated you cruelly.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent awhile. “Have you heard that he has chosen to work as a +furze-cutter?” she said in a low, mournful voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It has been mentioned to me,” answered Wildeve hesitatingly. +“But I hardly believed it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is true. What do you think of me as a furze-cutter’s +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think the same as ever of you, Eustacia. Nothing of that sort can +degrade you—you ennoble the occupation of your husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could feel it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any chance of Mr. Yeobright getting better?” +</p> + +<p> +“He thinks so. I doubt it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was quite surprised to hear that he had taken a cottage. I thought, in +common with other people, that he would have taken you off to a home in Paris +immediately after you had married him. ‘What a gay, bright future she has +before her!’ I thought. He will, I suppose, return there with you, if his +sight gets strong again?” +</p> + +<p> +Observing that she did not reply he regarded her more closely. She was almost +weeping. Images of a future never to be enjoyed, the revived sense of her +bitter disappointment, the picture of the neighbour’s suspended ridicule +which was raised by Wildeve’s words, had been too much for proud +Eustacia’s equanimity. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve could hardly control his own too forward feelings when he saw her +silent perturbation. But he affected not to notice this, and she soon recovered +her calmness. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not intend to walk home by yourself?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” said Eustacia. “What could hurt me on this heath, +who have nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“By diverging a little I can make my way home the same as yours. I shall +be glad to keep you company as far as Throope Corner.” Seeing that +Eustacia sat on in hesitation he added, “Perhaps you think it unwise to +be seen in the same road with me after the events of last summer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I think no such thing,” she said haughtily. “I shall +accept whose company I choose, for all that may be said by the miserable +inhabitants of Egdon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us walk on—if you are ready. Our nearest way is towards +that holly bush with the dark shadow that you see down there.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia arose, and walked beside him in the direction signified, brushing her +way over the damping heath and fern, and followed by the strains of the +merrymakers, who still kept up the dance. The moon had now waxed bright and +silvery, but the heath was proof against such illumination, and there was to be +observed the striking scene of a dark, rayless tract of country under an +atmosphere charged from its zenith to its extremities with whitest light. To an +eye above them their two faces would have appeared amid the expanse like two +pearls on a table of ebony. +</p> + +<p> +On this account the irregularities of the path were not visible, and Wildeve +occasionally stumbled; whilst Eustacia found it necessary to perform some +graceful feats of balancing whenever a small tuft of heather or root of furze +protruded itself through the grass of the narrow track and entangled her feet. +At these junctures in her progress a hand was invariably stretched forward to +steady her, holding her firmly until smooth ground was again reached, when the +hand was again withdrawn to a respectful distance. +</p> + +<p> +They performed the journey for the most part in silence, and drew near to +Throope Corner, a few hundred yards from which a short path branched away to +Eustacia’s house. By degrees they discerned coming towards them a pair of +human figures, apparently of the male sex. +</p> + +<p> +When they came a little nearer Eustacia broke the silence by saying, “One +of those men is my husband. He promised to come to meet me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the other is my greatest enemy,” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“It looks like Diggory Venn.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the man.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is an awkward meeting,” said she; “but such is my +fortune. He knows too much about me, unless he could know more, and so prove to +himself that what he now knows counts for nothing. Well, let it be—you +must deliver me up to them.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will think twice before you direct me to do that. Here is a man who +has not forgotten an item in our meetings at Rainbarrow—he is in company +with your husband. Which of them, seeing us together here, will believe that +our meeting and dancing at the gipsy party was by chance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” she whispered gloomily. “Leave me before they +come up.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve bade her a tender farewell, and plunged across the fern and furze, +Eustacia slowly walking on. In two or three minutes she met her husband and his +companion. +</p> + +<p> +“My journey ends here for tonight, reddleman,” said Yeobright as +soon as he perceived her. “I turn back with this lady. Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good night, Mr. Yeobright,” said Venn. “I hope to see you +better soon.” +</p> + +<p> +The moonlight shone directly upon Venn’s face as he spoke, and revealed +all its lines to Eustacia. He was looking suspiciously at her. That +Venn’s keen eye had discerned what Yeobright’s feeble vision had +not—a man in the act of withdrawing from Eustacia’s side—was +within the limits of the probable. +</p> + +<p> +If Eustacia had been able to follow the reddleman she would soon have found +striking confirmation of her thought. No sooner had Clym given her his arm and +led her off the scene than the reddleman turned back from the beaten track +towards East Egdon, whither he had been strolling merely to accompany Clym in +his walk, Diggory’s van being again in the neighbourhood. Stretching out +his long legs, he crossed the pathless portion of the heath somewhat in the +direction which Wildeve had taken. Only a man accustomed to nocturnal rambles +could at this hour have descended those shaggy slopes with Venn’s +velocity without falling headlong into a pit, or snapping off his leg by +jamming his foot into some rabbit burrow. But Venn went on without much +inconvenience to himself, and the course of his scamper was towards the Quiet +Woman Inn. This place he reached in about half an hour, and he was well aware +that no person who had been near Throope Corner when he started could have got +down here before him. +</p> + +<p> +The lonely inn was not yet closed, though scarcely an individual was there, the +business done being chiefly with travellers who passed the inn on long +journeys, and these had now gone on their way. Venn went to the public room, +called for a mug of ale, and inquired of the maid in an indifferent tone if Mr. +Wildeve was at home. +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin sat in an inner room and heard Venn’s voice. When customers were +present she seldom showed herself, owing to her inherent dislike for the +business; but perceiving that no one else was there tonight she came out. +</p> + +<p> +“He is not at home yet, Diggory,” she said pleasantly. “But I +expected him sooner. He has been to East Egdon to buy a horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he wear a light wideawake?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I saw him at Throope Corner, leading one home,” said Venn +drily. “A beauty, with a white face and a mane as black as night. He will +soon be here, no doubt.” Rising and looking for a moment at the pure, +sweet face of Thomasin, over which a shadow of sadness had passed since the +time when he had last seen her, he ventured to add, “Mr. Wildeve seems to +be often away at this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” cried Thomasin in what was intended to be a tone of +gaiety. “Husbands will play the truant, you know. I wish you could tell +me of some secret plan that would help me to keep him home at my will in the +evenings.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will consider if I know of one,” replied Venn in that same light +tone which meant no lightness. And then he bowed in a manner of his own +invention and moved to go. Thomasin offered him her hand; and without a sigh, +though with food for many, the reddleman went out. +</p> + +<p> +When Wildeve returned, a quarter of an hour later Thomasin said simply, and in +the abashed manner usual with her now, “Where is the horse, Damon?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I have not bought it, after all. The man asks too much.” +</p> + +<p> +“But somebody saw you at Throope Corner leading it home—a beauty, +with a white face and a mane as black as night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Wildeve, fixing his eyes upon her; “who told you +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Venn the reddleman.” +</p> + +<p> +The expression of Wildeve’s face became curiously condensed. “That +is a mistake—it must have been someone else,” he said slowly and +testily, for he perceived that Venn’s countermoves had begun again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>IV.<br /> +Rough Coercion Is Employed</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 manœuvring on Thomasin’s +account. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At this time, as has 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Although his weaknesses were not specially those akin to physical fear, this +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am warm,” said Eustacia. “I think I will go into the air +for a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“O no. I am only going to the gate.” +</p> + +<p> +She arose, but before she had time to get out of the room a loud rapping began +upon the front door. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile a little drama had been acted outside which saved Eustacia from all +possibility of compromising herself that evening at least. Whilst 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Damn him!” said Wildeve. “He has been watching me +again.” +</p> + +<p> +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. Halfway 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 horseplay, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your visits would make Wildeve walk straighter than he is inclined to +do, and might prevent unhappiness down the heath.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there <i>was</i> an understanding between him and Clym’s wife +when he made a fool of Thomasin!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll hope there’s no understanding now.” +</p> + +<p> +“And our hope will probably be very vain. O Clym! O Thomasin!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no harm done yet. In fact, I’ve persuaded Wildeve to +mind his own business.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, not by talking—by a plan of mine called the silent +system.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you’ll succeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall if you help me by calling and making friends with your son. +You’ll have a chance then of using your eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you propose to do?” said Eustacia abstractedly, for she +could not clear away from her the excitement caused by Wildeve’s recent +manœuvre for an interview. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to take a very mild interest in what I propose, little or +much,” said Clym, with tolerable warmth. +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake me,” she answered, reviving at his reproach. “I +am only thinking.” +</p> + +<p> +“What of?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you to blame yourself about?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is getting old, and her life is lonely, and I am her only +son.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has Thomasin.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +halfway by welcoming her to our house, or by accepting a welcome to +hers?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never distinctly told me what did pass between you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Three people.” +</p> + +<p> +“Five,” Eustacia thought; but she kept that in. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>V.<br /> +The Journey across the Heath</h2> + +<p> +Thursday, the thirty-first of August, was one of a series of days during which +snug houses were stifling, and when cool draughts were treats; when cracks +appeared in clayey gardens, and were called “earthquakes” by +apprehensive children; when loose spokes were discovered in the wheels of carts +and carriages; and when stinging insects haunted the air, the earth, and every +drop of water that was to be found. +</p> + +<p> +In Mrs. Yeobright’s garden large-leaved plants of a tender kind flagged +by ten o’clock in the morning; rhubarb bent downward at eleven; and even +stiff cabbages were limp by noon. +</p> + +<p> +It was about eleven o’clock on this day that Mrs. Yeobright started +across the heath towards her son’s house, to do her best in getting +reconciled with him and Eustacia, in conformity with her words to the +reddleman. She had hoped to be well advanced in her walk before the heat of the +day was at its highest, but after setting out she found that this was not to be +done. The sun had branded the whole heath with its mark, even the purple +heath-flowers having put on a brownness under the dry blazes of the few +preceding days. Every valley was filled with air like that of a kiln, and the +clean quartz sand of the winter water-courses, which formed summer paths, had +undergone a species of incineration since the drought had set in. +</p> + +<p> +In cool, fresh weather Mrs. Yeobright would have found no inconvenience in +walking to Alderworth, but the present torrid attack made the journey a heavy +undertaking for a woman past middle age; and at the end of the third mile she +wished that she had hired Fairway to drive her a portion at least of the +distance. But from the point at which she had arrived it was as easy to reach +Clym’s house as to get home again. So she went on, the air around her +pulsating silently, and oppressing the earth with lassitude. She looked at the +sky overhead, and saw that the sapphirine hue of the zenith in spring and early +summer had been replaced by a metallic violet. +</p> + +<p> +Occasionally she came to a spot where independent worlds of ephemerons were +passing their time in mad carousal, some in the air, some on the hot ground and +vegetation, some in the tepid and stringy water of a nearly dried pool. All the +shallower ponds had decreased to a vaporous mud amid which the maggoty shapes +of innumerable obscure creatures could be indistinctly seen, heaving and +wallowing with enjoyment. Being a woman not disinclined to philosophize she +sometimes sat down under her umbrella to rest and to watch their happiness, for +a certain hopefulness as to the result of her visit gave ease to her mind, and +between important thoughts left it free to dwell on any infinitesimal matter +which caught her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright had never before been to her son’s house, and its exact +position was unknown to her. She tried one ascending path and another, and +found that they led her astray. Retracing her steps, she came again to an open +level, where she perceived at a distance a man at work. She went towards him +and inquired the way. +</p> + +<p> +The labourer pointed out the direction, and added, “Do you see that +furze-cutter, ma’am, going up that footpath yond?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright strained her eyes, and at last said that she did perceive him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you follow him you can make no mistake. He’s going to the +same place, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +She followed the figure indicated. He appeared of a russet hue, not more +distinguishable from the scene around him than the green caterpillar from the +leaf it feeds on. His progress when actually walking was more rapid than Mrs. +Yeobright’s; but she was enabled to keep at an equable distance from him +by his habit of stopping whenever he came to a brake of brambles, where he +paused awhile. On coming in her turn to each of these spots she found half a +dozen long limp brambles which he had cut from the bush during his halt and +laid out straight beside the path. They were evidently intended for +furze-faggot bonds which he meant to collect on his return. +</p> + +<p> +The silent being who thus occupied himself seemed to be of no more account in +life than an insect. He appeared as a mere parasite of the heath, fretting its +surface in his daily labour as a moth frets a garment, entirely engrossed with +its products, having no knowledge of anything in the world but fern, furze, +heath, lichens, and moss. +</p> + +<p> +The furze-cutter was so absorbed in the business of his journey that he never +turned his head; and his leather-legged and gauntleted form at length became to +her as nothing more than a moving handpost to show her the way. Suddenly she +was attracted to his individuality by observing peculiarities in his walk. It +was a gait she had seen somewhere before; and the gait revealed the man to her, +as the gait of Ahimaaz in the distant plain made him known to the watchman of +the king. “His walk is exactly as my husband’s used to be,” +she said; and then the thought burst upon her that the furze-cutter was her +son. +</p> + +<p> +She was scarcely able to familiarize herself with this strange reality. She had +been told that Clym was in the habit of cutting furze, but she had supposed +that he occupied himself with the labour only at odd times, by way of useful +pastime; yet she now beheld him as a furze-cutter and nothing +more—wearing the regulation dress of the craft, and thinking the +regulation thoughts, to judge by his motions. Planning a dozen hasty schemes +for at once preserving him and Eustacia from this mode of life, she throbbingly +followed the way, and saw him enter his own door. +</p> + +<p> +At one side of Clym’s house was a knoll, and on the top of the knoll a +clump of fir trees so highly thrust up into the sky that their foliage from a +distance appeared as a black spot in the air above the crown of the hill. On +reaching this place Mrs. Yeobright felt distressingly agitated, weary, and +unwell. She ascended, and sat down under their shade to recover herself, and to +consider how best to break the ground with Eustacia, so as not to irritate a +woman underneath whose apparent indolence lurked passions even stronger and +more active than her own. +</p> + +<p> +The trees beneath which she sat were singularly battered, rude, and wild, and +for a few minutes Mrs. Yeobright dismissed thoughts of her own storm-broken and +exhausted state to contemplate theirs. Not a bough in the nine trees which +composed the group but was splintered, lopped, and distorted by the fierce +weather that there held them at its mercy whenever it prevailed. Some were +blasted and split as if by lightning, black stains as from fire marking their +sides, while the ground at their feet was strewn with dead fir-needles and +heaps of cones blown down in the gales of past years. The place was called the +Devil’s Bellows, and it was only necessary to come there on a March or +November night to discover the forcible reasons for that name. On the present +heated afternoon, when no perceptible wind was blowing, the trees kept up a +perpetual moan which one could hardly believe to be caused by the air. +</p> + +<p> +Here she sat for twenty minutes or more ere she could summon resolution to go +down to the door, her courage being lowered to zero by her physical lassitude. +To any other person than a mother it might have seemed a little humiliating +that she, the elder of the two women, should be the first to make advances. But +Mrs. Yeobright had well considered all that, and she only thought how best to +make her visit appear to Eustacia not abject but wise. +</p> + +<p> +From her elevated position the exhausted woman could perceive the roof of the +house below, and the garden and the whole enclosure of the little domicile. And +now, at the moment of rising, she saw a second man approaching the gate. His +manner was peculiar, hesitating, and not that of a person come on business or +by invitation. He surveyed the house with interest, and then walked round and +scanned the outer boundary of the garden, as one might have done had it been +the birthplace of Shakespeare, the prison of Mary Stuart, or the Château of +Hougomont. After passing round and again reaching the gate he went in. Mrs. +Yeobright was vexed at this, having reckoned on finding her son and his wife by +themselves; but a moment’s thought showed her that the presence of an +acquaintance would take off the awkwardness of her first appearance in the +house, by confining the talk to general matters until she had begun to feel +comfortable with them. She came down the hill to the gate, and looked into the +hot garden. +</p> + +<p> +There lay the cat asleep on the bare gravel of the path, as if beds, rugs, and +carpets were unendurable. The leaves of the hollyhocks hung like half-closed +umbrellas, the sap almost simmered in the stems, and foliage with a smooth +surface glared like metallic mirrors. A small apple tree, of the sort called +Ratheripe, grew just inside the gate, the only one which throve in the garden, +by reason of the lightness of the soil; and among the fallen apples on the +ground beneath were wasps rolling drunk with the juice, or creeping about the +little caves in each fruit which they had eaten out before stupefied by its +sweetness. By the door lay Clym’s furze-hook and the last handful of +faggot-bonds she had seen him gather; they had plainly been thrown down there +as he entered the house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>VI.<br /> +A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian</h2> + +<p> +Wildeve, as has been stated, was determined to visit Eustacia boldly, by day, +and on the easy terms of a relation, since the reddleman had spied out and +spoilt his walks to her by night. The spell that she had thrown over him in the +moonlight dance made it impossible for a man having no strong puritanic force +within him to keep away altogether. He merely calculated on meeting her and her +husband in an ordinary manner, chatting a little while, and leaving again. +Every outward sign was to be conventional; but the one great fact would be +there to satisfy him—he would see her. He did not even desire +Clym’s absence, since it was just possible that Eustacia might resent any +situation which could compromise her dignity as a wife, whatever the state of +her heart towards him. Women were often so. +</p> + +<p> +He went accordingly; and it happened that the time of his arrival coincided +with that of Mrs. Yeobright’s pause on the hill near the house. When he +had looked round the premises in the manner she had noticed he went and knocked +at the door. There was a few minutes’ interval, and then the key turned +in the lock, the door opened, and Eustacia herself confronted him. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody could have imagined from her bearing now that here stood the woman who +had joined with him in the impassioned dance of the week before, unless indeed +he could have penetrated below the surface and gauged the real depth of that +still stream. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you reached home safely?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“O yes,” she carelessly returned. +</p> + +<p> +“And were you not tired the next day? I feared you might be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was rather. You need not speak low—nobody will over-hear us. My +small servant is gone on an errand to the village.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then Clym is not at home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he is.” +</p> + +<p> +“O! I thought that perhaps you had locked the door because you were alone +and were afraid of tramps.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—here is my husband.” +</p> + +<p> +They had been standing in the entry. Closing the front door and turning the +key, as before, she threw open the door of the adjoining room and asked him to +walk in. Wildeve entered, the room appearing to be empty; but as soon as he had +advanced a few steps he started. On the hearthrug lay Clym asleep. Beside him +were the leggings, thick boots, leather gloves, and sleeve-waistcoat in which +he worked. +</p> + +<p> +“You may go in; you will not disturb him,” she said, following +behind. “My reason for fastening the door is that he may not be intruded +upon by any chance comer while lying here, if I should be in the garden or +upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why is he sleeping there?” said Wildeve in low tones. +</p> + +<p> +“He is very weary. He went out at half-past four this morning, and has +been working ever since. He cuts furze because it is the only thing he can do +that does not put any strain upon his poor eyes.” The contrast between +the sleeper’s appearance and Wildeve’s at this moment was painfully +apparent to Eustacia, Wildeve being elegantly dressed in a new summer suit and +light hat; and she continued: “Ah! you don’t know how differently +he appeared when I first met him, though it is such a little while ago. His +hands were as white and soft as mine; and look at them now, how rough and brown +they are! His complexion is by nature fair, and that rusty look he has now, all +of a colour with his leather clothes, is caused by the burning of the +sun.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why does he go out at all!” Wildeve whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he hates to be idle; though what he earns doesn’t add much +to our exchequer. However, he says that when people are living upon their +capital they must keep down current expenses by turning a penny where they +can.” +</p> + +<p> +“The fates have not been kind to you, Eustacia Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to thank them for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor has he—except for their one great gift to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve looked her in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia blushed for the first time that day. “Well, I am a questionable +gift,” she said quietly. “I thought you meant the gift of +content—which he has, and I have not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can understand content in such a case—though how the outward +situation can attract him puzzles me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s because you don’t know him. He’s an enthusiast +about ideas, and careless about outward things. He often reminds me of the +Apostle Paul.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear that he’s so grand in character as that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but the worst of it is that though Paul was excellent as a man in +the Bible he would hardly have done in real life.” +</p> + +<p> +Their voices had instinctively dropped lower, though at first they had taken no +particular care to avoid awakening Clym. “Well, if that means that your +marriage is a misfortune to you, you know who is to blame,” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“The marriage is no misfortune in itself,” she retorted with some +little petulance. “It is simply the accident which has happened since +that has been the cause of my ruin. I have certainly got thistles for figs in a +worldly sense, but how could I tell what time would bring forth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes, Eustacia, I think it is a judgment upon you. You rightly +belonged to me, you know; and I had no idea of losing you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it was not my fault! Two could not belong to you; and remember that, +before I was aware, you turned aside to another woman. It was cruel levity in +you to do that. I never dreamt of playing such a game on my side till you began +it on yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“I meant nothing by it,” replied Wildeve. “It was a mere +interlude. Men are given to the trick of having a passing fancy for somebody +else in the midst of a permanent love, which reasserts itself afterwards just +as before. On account of your rebellious manner to me I was tempted to go +further than I should have done; and when you still would keep playing the same +tantalizing part I went further still, and married her.” Turning and +looking again at the unconscious form of Clym, he murmured, “I am afraid +that you don’t value your prize, Clym.... He ought to be happier than I +in one thing at least. He may know what it is to come down in the world, and to +be afflicted with a great personal calamity; but he probably doesn’t know +what it is to lose the woman he loved.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not ungrateful for winning her,” whispered Eustacia, +“and in that respect he is a good man. Many women would go far for such a +husband. But do I desire unreasonably much in wanting what is called +life—music, poetry, passion, war, and all the beating and pulsing that +are going on in the great arteries of the world? That was the shape of my +youthful dream; but I did not get it. Yet I thought I saw the way to it in my +Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you only married him on that account?” +</p> + +<p> +“There you mistake me. I married him because I loved him, but I +won’t say that I didn’t love him partly because I thought I saw a +promise of that life in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have dropped into your old mournful key.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not going to be depressed,” she cried perversely. +“I began a new system by going to that dance, and I mean to stick to it. +Clym can sing merrily; why should not I?” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve looked thoughtfully at her. “It is easier to say you will sing +than to do it; though if I could I would encourage you in your attempt. But as +life means nothing to me, without one thing which is now impossible, you will +forgive me for not being able to encourage you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damon, what is the matter with you, that you speak like that?” she +asked, raising her deep shady eyes to his. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a thing I shall never tell plainly; and perhaps if I try to +tell you in riddles you will not care to guess them.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia remained silent for a minute, and she said, “We are in a strange +relationship today. You mince matters to an uncommon nicety. You mean, Damon, +that you still love me. Well, that gives me sorrow, for I am not made so +entirely happy by my marriage that I am willing to spurn you for the +information, as I ought to do. But we have said too much about this. Do you +mean to wait until my husband is awake?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought to speak to him; but it is unnecessary, Eustacia, if I offend +you by not forgetting you, you are right to mention it; but do not talk of +spurning.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply, and they stood looking musingly at Clym as he slept on in +that profound sleep which is the result of physical labour carried on in +circumstances that wake no nervous fear. +</p> + +<p> +“God, how I envy him that sweet sleep!” said Wildeve. “I have +not slept like that since I was a boy—years and years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +While they thus watched him a click at the gate was audible, and a knock came +to the door. Eustacia went to a window and looked out. +</p> + +<p> +Her countenance changed. First she became crimson, and then the red subsided +till it even partially left her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go away?” said Wildeve, standing up. +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Yeobright. O, what she said to me that day! I cannot understand +this visit—what does she mean? And she suspects that past time of +ours.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am in your hands. If you think she had better not see me here +I’ll go into the next room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes—go.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve at once withdrew; but before he had been half a minute in the adjoining +apartment Eustacia came after him. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “we won’t have any of this. If she +comes in she must see you—and think if she likes there’s something +wrong! But how can I open the door to her, when she dislikes me—wishes to +see not me, but her son? I won’t open the door!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright knocked again more loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“Her knocking will, in all likelihood, awaken him,” continued +Eustacia, “and then he will let her in himself. Ah—listen.” +</p> + +<p> +They could hear Clym moving in the other room, as if disturbed by the knocking, +and he uttered the word “Mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—he is awake—he will go to the door,” she said, +with a breath of relief. “Come this way. I have a bad name with her, and +you must not be seen. Thus I am obliged to act by stealth, not because I do +ill, but because others are pleased to say so.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time she had taken him to the back door, which was open, disclosing a +path leading down the garden. “Now, one word, Damon,” she remarked +as he stepped forth. “This is your first visit here; let it be your last. +We have been hot lovers in our time, but it won’t do now. +Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” said Wildeve. “I have had all I came for, and I +am satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“A sight of you. Upon my eternal honour I came for no more.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve kissed his hand to the beautiful girl he addressed, and passed into the +garden, where she watched him down the path, over the stile at the end, and +into the ferns outside, which brushed his hips as he went along till he became +lost in their thickets. When he had quite gone she slowly turned, and directed +her attention to the interior of the house. +</p> + +<p> +But it was possible that her presence might not be desired by Clym and his +mother at this moment of their first meeting, or that it would be superfluous. +At all events, she was in no hurry to meet Mrs. Yeobright. She resolved to wait +till Clym came to look for her, and glided back into the garden. Here she idly +occupied herself for a few minutes, till finding no notice was taken of her she +retraced her steps through the house to the front, where she listened for +voices in the parlour. But hearing none she opened the door and went in. To her +astonishment Clym lay precisely as Wildeve and herself had left him, his sleep +apparently unbroken. He had been disturbed and made to dream and murmur by the +knocking, but he had not awakened. Eustacia hastened to the door, and in spite +of her reluctance to open it to a woman who had spoken of her so bitterly, she +unfastened it and looked out. Nobody was to be seen. There, by the scraper, lay +Clym’s hook and the handful of faggot-bonds he had brought home; in front +of her were the empty path, the garden gate standing slightly ajar; and, +beyond, the great valley of purple heath thrilling silently in the sun. Mrs. +Yeobright was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Clym’s mother was at this time following a path which lay hidden from +Eustacia by a shoulder of the hill. Her walk thither from the garden gate had +been hasty and determined, as of a woman who was now no less anxious to escape +from the scene than she had previously been to enter it. Her eyes were fixed on +the ground; within her two sights were graven—that of Clym’s hook +and brambles at the door, and that of a woman’s face at a window. Her +lips trembled, becoming unnaturally thin as she murmured, “’Tis too +much—Clym, how can he bear to do it! He is at home; and yet he lets her +shut the door against me!” +</p> + +<p> +In her anxiety to get out of the direct view of the house she had diverged from +the straightest path homeward, and while looking about to regain it she came +upon a little boy gathering whortleberries in a hollow. The boy was Johnny +Nunsuch, who had been Eustacia’s stoker at the bonfire, and, with the +tendency of a minute body to gravitate towards a greater, he began hovering +round Mrs. Yeobright as soon as she appeared, and trotted on beside her without +perceptible consciousness of his act. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright spoke to him as one in a mesmeric sleep. “’Tis a +long way home, my child, and we shall not get there till evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall,” said her small companion. “I am going to play +marnels afore supper, and we go to supper at six o’clock, because Father +comes home. Does your father come home at six too?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he never comes; nor my son either, nor anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have made you so down? Have you seen a ooser?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen what’s worse—a woman’s face looking at me +through a windowpane.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that a bad sight?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It is always a bad sight to see a woman looking out at a weary +wayfarer and not letting her in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once when I went to Throope Great Pond to catch effets I seed myself +looking up at myself, and I was frightened and jumped back like +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +...“If they had only shown signs of meeting my advances halfway how well +it might have been done! But there is no chance. Shut out! She must have set +him against me. Can there be beautiful bodies without hearts inside? I think +so. I would not have done it against a neighbour’s cat on such a fiery +day as this!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never again—never! Not even if they send for me!” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be a very curious woman to talk like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, not at all,” she said, returning to the boy’s prattle. +“Most people who grow up and have children talk as I do. When you grow up +your mother will talk as I do too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope she won’t; because ’tis very bad to talk +nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, child; it is nonsense, I suppose. Are you not nearly spent with the +heat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. But not so much as you be.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your face is white and wet, and your head is hanging-down-like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I am exhausted from inside.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you, every time you take a step, go like this?” The child +in speaking gave to his motion the jerk and limp of an invalid. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have a burden which is more than I can bear.” +</p> + +<p> +The little boy remained silently pondering, and they tottered on side by side +until more than a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when Mrs. Yeobright, whose +weakness plainly increased, said to him, “I must sit down here to +rest.” +</p> + +<p> +When she had seated herself he looked long in her face and said, “How +funny you draw your breath—like a lamb when you drive him till he’s +nearly done for. Do you always draw your breath like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not always.” Her voice was now so low as to be scarcely above a +whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“You will go to sleep there, I suppose, won’t you? You have shut +your eyes already.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I shall not sleep much till—another day, and then I hope to +have a long, long one—very long. Now can you tell me if Rimsmoor Pond is +dry this summer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rimsmoor Pond is, but Oker’s Pool isn’t, because he is deep, +and is never dry—’tis just over there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is the water clear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, middling—except where the heath-croppers walk into it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, take this, and go as fast as you can, and dip me up the clearest +you can find. I am very faint.” +</p> + +<p> +She drew from the small willow reticule that she carried in her hand an +old-fashioned china teacup without a handle; it was one of half a dozen of the +same sort lying in the reticule, which she had preserved ever since her +childhood, and had brought with her today as a small present for Clym and +Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +The boy started on his errand, and soon came back with the water, such as it +was. Mrs. Yeobright attempted to drink, but it was so warm as to give her +nausea, and she threw it away. Afterwards she still remained sitting, with her +eyes closed. +</p> + +<p> +The boy waited, played near her, caught several of the little brown butterflies +which abounded, and then said as he waited again, “I like going on better +than biding still. Will you soon start again?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I might go on by myself,” he resumed, fearing, apparently, +that he was to be pressed into some unpleasant service. “Do you want me +any more, please?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I tell Mother?” the boy continued. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell her you have seen a broken-hearted woman cast off by her +son.” +</p> + +<p> +Before quite leaving her he threw upon her face a wistful glance, as if he had +misgivings on the generosity of forsaking her thus. He gazed into her face in a +vague, wondering manner, like that of one examining some strange old manuscript +the key to whose characters is undiscoverable. He was not so young as to be +absolutely without a sense that sympathy was demanded, he was not old enough to +be free from the terror felt in childhood at beholding misery in adult quarters +hitherto deemed impregnable; and whether she were in a position to cause +trouble or to suffer from it, whether she and her affliction were something to +pity or something to fear, it was beyond him to decide. He lowered his eyes and +went on without another word. Before he had gone half a mile he had forgotten +all about her, except that she was a woman who had sat down to rest. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Yeobright’s exertions, physical and emotional, had well-nigh +prostrated her; but she continued to creep along in short stages with long +breaks between. The sun had now got far to the west of south and stood directly +in her face, like some merciless incendiary, brand in hand, waiting to consume +her. With the departure of the boy all visible animation disappeared from the +landscape, though the intermittent husky notes of the male grasshoppers from +every tuft of furze were enough to show that amid the prostration of the larger +animal species an unseen insect world was busy in all the fullness of life. +</p> + +<p> +In two hours she reached a slope about three-fourths the whole distance from +Alderworth to her own home, where a little patch of shepherd’s-thyme +intruded upon the path; and she sat down upon the perfumed mat it formed there. +In front of her a colony of ants had established a thoroughfare across the way, +where they toiled a never-ending and heavy-laden throng. To look down upon them +was like observing a city street from the top of a tower. She remembered that +this bustle of ants had been in progress for years at the same +spot—doubtless those of the old times were the ancestors of these which +walked there now. She leant back to obtain more thorough rest, and the soft +eastern portion of the sky was as great a relief to her eyes as the thyme was +to her head. While she looked a heron arose on that side of the sky and flew on +with his face towards the sun. He had come dripping wet from some pool in the +valleys, and as he flew the edges and lining of his wings, his thighs and his +breast were so caught by the bright sunbeams that he appeared as if formed of +burnished silver. Up in the zenith where he was seemed a free and happy place, +away from all contact with the earthly ball to which she was pinioned; and she +wished that she could arise uncrushed from its surface and fly as he flew then. +</p> + +<p> +But, being a mother, it was inevitable that she should soon cease to ruminate +upon her own condition. Had the track of her next thought been marked by a +streak in the air, like the path of a meteor, it would have shown a direction +contrary to the heron’s, and have descended to the eastward upon the roof +of Clym’s house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>VII.<br /> +The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends</h2> + +<p> +He in the meantime had aroused himself from sleep, sat up, and looked around. +Eustacia was sitting in a chair hard by him, and though she held a book in her +hand she had not looked into it for some time. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, indeed!” said Clym, brushing his eyes with his hands. +“How soundly I have slept! I have had such a tremendous dream, +too—one I shall never forget.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you had been dreaming,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It was about my mother. I dreamt that I took you to her house to +make up differences, and when we got there we couldn’t get in, though she +kept on crying to us for help. However, dreams are dreams. What o’clock +is it, Eustacia?” +</p> + +<p> +“Half-past two.” +</p> + +<p> +“So late, is it? I didn’t mean to stay so long. By the time I have +had something to eat it will be after three.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ann is not come back from the village, and I thought I would let you +sleep on till she returned.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym went to the window and looked out. Presently he said, musingly, +“Week after week passes, and yet Mother does not come. I thought I should +have heard something from her long before this.” +</p> + +<p> +Misgiving, regret, fear, resolution, ran their swift course of expression in +Eustacia’s dark eyes. She was face to face with a monstrous difficulty, +and she resolved to get free of it by postponement. +</p> + +<p> +“I must certainly go to Blooms-End soon,” he continued, “and +I think I had better go alone.” He picked up his leggings and gloves, +threw them down again, and added, “As dinner will be so late today I will +not go back to the heath, but work in the garden till the evening, and then, +when it will be cooler, I will walk to Blooms-End. I am quite sure that if I +make a little advance Mother will be willing to forget all. It will be rather +late before I can get home, as I shall not be able to do the distance either +way in less than an hour and a half. But you will not mind for one evening, +dear? What are you thinking of to make you look so abstracted?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you,” she said heavily. “I wish we +didn’t live here, Clym. The world seems all wrong in this place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—if we make it so. I wonder if Thomasin has been to Blooms-End +lately. I hope so. But probably not, as she is, I believe, expecting to be +confined in a month or so. I wish I had thought of that before. Poor Mother +must indeed be very lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like you going tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not tonight?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something may be said which will terribly injure me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother is not vindictive,” said Clym, his colour faintly +rising. +</p> + +<p> +“But I wish you would not go,” Eustacia repeated in a low tone. +“If you agree not to go tonight I promise to go by myself to her house +tomorrow, and make it up with her, and wait till you fetch me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you want to do that at this particular time, when at every +previous time that I have proposed it you have refused?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot explain further than that I should like to see her alone before +you go,” she answered, with an impatient move of her head, and looking at +him with an anxiety more frequently seen upon those of a sanguine temperament +than upon such as herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is very odd that just when I had decided to go myself you +should want to do what I proposed long ago. If I wait for you to go tomorrow +another day will be lost; and I know I shall be unable to rest another night +without having been. I want to get this settled, and will. You must visit her +afterwards—it will be all the same.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could even go with you now?” +</p> + +<p> +“You could scarcely walk there and back without a longer rest than I +shall take. No, not tonight, Eustacia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let it be as you say, then,” she replied in the quiet way of one +who, though willing to ward off evil consequences by a mild effort, would let +events fall out as they might sooner than wrestle hard to direct them. +</p> + +<p> +Clym then went into the garden; and a thoughtful languor stole over Eustacia +for the remainder of the afternoon, which her husband attributed to the heat of +the weather. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening he set out on the journey. Although the heat of summer was yet +intense the days had considerably shortened, and before he had advanced a mile +on his way all the heath purples, browns, and greens had merged in a uniform +dress without airiness or graduation, and broken only by touches of white where +the little heaps of clean quartz sand showed the entrance to a rabbit burrow, +or where the white flints of a footpath lay like a thread over the slopes. In +almost every one of the isolated and stunted thorns which grew here and there a +nighthawk revealed his presence by whirring like the clack of a mill as long as +he could hold his breath, then stopping, flapping his wings, wheeling round the +bush, alighting, and after a silent interval of listening beginning to whirr +again. At each brushing of Clym’s feet white millermoths flew into the +air just high enough to catch upon their dusty wings the mellowed light from +the west, which now shone across the depressions and levels of the ground +without falling thereon to light them up. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright walked on amid this quiet scene with a hope that all would soon be +well. Three miles on he came to a spot where a soft perfume was wafted across +his path, and he stood still for a moment to inhale the familiar scent. It was +the place at which, four hours earlier, his mother had sat down exhausted on +the knoll covered with shepherd’s-thyme. While he stood a sound between a +breathing and a moan suddenly reached his ears. +</p> + +<p> +He looked to where the sound came from; but nothing appeared there save the +verge of the hillock stretching against the sky in an unbroken line. He moved a +few steps in that direction, and now he perceived a recumbent figure almost +close to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +Among the different possibilities as to the person’s individuality there +did not for a moment occur to Yeobright that it might be one of his own family. +Sometimes furze-cutters had been known to sleep out of doors at these times, to +save a long journey homeward and back again; but Clym remembered the moan and +looked closer, and saw that the form was feminine; and a distress came over him +like cold air from a cave. But he was not absolutely certain that the woman was +his mother till he stooped and beheld her face, pallid, and with closed eyes. +</p> + +<p> +His breath went, as it were, out of his body and the cry of anguish which would +have escaped him died upon his lips. During the momentary interval that elapsed +before he became conscious that something must be done all sense of time and +place left him, and it seemed as if he and his mother were as when he was a +child with her many years ago on this heath at hours similar to the present. +Then he awoke to activity; and bending yet lower he found that she still +breathed, and that her breath though feeble was regular, except when disturbed +by an occasional gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“O, what is it! Mother, are you very ill—you are not dying?” +he cried, pressing his lips to her face. “I am your Clym. How did you +come here? What does it all mean?” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the chasm in their lives which his love for Eustacia had caused +was not remembered by Yeobright, and to him the present joined continuously +with that friendly past that had been their experience before the division. +</p> + +<p> +She moved her lips, appeared to know him, but could not speak; and then Clym +strove to consider how best to move her, as it would be necessary to get her +away from the spot before the dews were intense. He was able-bodied, and his +mother was thin. He clasped his arms round her, lifted her a little, and said, +“Does that hurt you?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head, and he lifted her up; then, at a slow pace, went onward +with his load. The air was now completely cool; but whenever he passed over a +sandy patch of ground uncarpeted with vegetation there was reflected from its +surface into his face the heat which it had imbibed during the day. At the +beginning of his undertaking he had thought but little of the distance which +yet would have to be traversed before Blooms-End could be reached; but though +he had slept that afternoon he soon began to feel the weight of his burden. +Thus he proceeded, like Æneas with his father; the bats circling round his +head, nightjars flapping their wings within a yard of his face, and not a human +being within call. +</p> + +<p> +While he was yet nearly a mile from the house his mother exhibited signs of +restlessness under the constraint of being borne along, as if his arms were +irksome to her. He lowered her upon his knees and looked around. The point they +had now reached, though far from any road, was not more than a mile from the +Blooms-End cottages occupied by Fairway, Sam, Humphrey, and the Cantles. +Moreover, fifty yards off stood a hut, built of clods and covered with thin +turves, but now entirely disused. The simple outline of the lonely shed was +visible, and thither he determined to direct his steps. As soon as he arrived +he laid her down carefully by the entrance, and then ran and cut with his +pocketknife an armful of the dryest fern. Spreading this within the shed, which +was entirely open on one side, he placed his mother thereon; then he ran with +all his might towards the dwelling of Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, disturbed only by the broken breathing +of the sufferer, when moving figures began to animate the line between heath +and sky. In a few moments Clym arrived with Fairway, Humphrey, and Susan +Nunsuch; Olly Dowden, who had chanced to be at Fairway’s, Christian and +Grandfer Cantle following helter-skelter behind. They had brought a lantern and +matches, water, a pillow, and a few other articles which had occurred to their +minds in the hurry of the moment. Sam had been despatched back again for +brandy, and a boy brought Fairway’s pony, upon which he rode off to the +nearest medical man, with directions to call at Wildeve’s on his way, and +inform Thomasin that her aunt was unwell. +</p> + +<p> +Sam and the brandy soon arrived, and it was administered by the light of the +lantern; after which she became sufficiently conscious to signify by signs that +something was wrong with her foot. Olly Dowden at length understood her +meaning, and examined the foot indicated. It was swollen and red. Even as they +watched the red began to assume a more livid colour, in the midst of which +appeared a scarlet speck, smaller than a pea, and it was found to consist of a +drop of blood, which rose above the smooth flesh of her ankle in a hemisphere. +</p> + +<p> +“I know what it is,” cried Sam. “She has been stung by an +adder!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Clym instantly. “I remember when I was a child +seeing just such a bite. O, my poor mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“It was my father who was bit,” said Sam. “And there’s +only one way to cure it. You must rub the place with the fat of other adders, +and the only way to get that is by frying them. That’s what they did for +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis an old remedy,” said Clym distrustfully, “and I +have doubts about it. But we can do nothing else till the doctor comes.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a sure cure,” said Olly Dowden, with emphasis. +“I’ve used it when I used to go out nursing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we must pray for daylight, to catch them,” said Clym +gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“I will see what I can do,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +He took a green hazel which he had used as a walking stick, split it at the +end, inserted a small pebble, and with the lantern in his hand went out into +the heath. Clym had by this time lit a small fire, and despatched Susan Nunsuch +for a frying pan. Before she had returned Sam came in with three adders, one +briskly coiling and uncoiling in the cleft of the stick, and the other two +hanging dead across it. +</p> + +<p> +“I have only been able to get one alive and fresh as he ought to +be,” said Sam. “These limp ones are two I killed today at work; but +as they don’t die till the sun goes down they can’t be very stale +meat.” +</p> + +<p> +The live adder regarded the assembled group with a sinister look in its small +black eye, and the beautiful brown and jet pattern on its back seemed to +intensify with indignation. Mrs. Yeobright saw the creature, and the creature +saw her—she quivered throughout, and averted her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at that,” murmured Christian Cantle. “Neighbours, how +do we know but that something of the old serpent in God’s garden, that +gied the apple to the young woman with no clothes, lives on in adders and +snakes still? Look at his eye—for all the world like a villainous sort of +black currant. ’Tis to be hoped he can’t ill-wish us! There’s +folks in heath who’ve been overlooked already. I will never kill another +adder as long as I live.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’tis right to be afeard of things, if folks can’t help +it,” said Grandfer Cantle. “’Twould have saved me many a +brave danger in my time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy I heard something outside the shed,” said Christian. +“I wish troubles would come in the daytime, for then a man could show his +courage, and hardly beg for mercy of the most broomstick old woman he should +see, if he was a brave man, and able to run out of her sight!” +</p> + +<p> +“Even such an ignorant fellow as I should know better than do +that,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s calamities where we least expect it, whether or no. +Neighbours, if Mrs. Yeobright were to die, d’ye think we should be took +up and tried for the manslaughter of a woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, they couldn’t bring it in as that,” said Sam, +“unless they could prove we had been poachers at some time of our lives. +But she’ll fetch round.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if I had been stung by ten adders I should hardly have lost a +day’s work for’t,” said Grandfer Cantle. “Such is my +spirit when I am on my mettle. But perhaps ’tis natural in a man trained +for war. Yes, I’ve gone through a good deal; but nothing ever came amiss +to me after I joined the Locals in four.” He shook his head and smiled at +a mental picture of himself in uniform. “I was always first in the most +galliantest scrapes in my younger days!” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that was because they always used to put the biggest fool +afore,” said Fairway from the fire, beside which he knelt, blowing it +with his breath. +</p> + +<p> +“D’ye think so, Timothy?” said Grandfer Cantle, coming +forward to Fairway’s side with sudden depression in his face. “Then +a man may feel for years that he is good solid company, and be wrong about +himself after all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that question, Grandfer. Stir your stumps and get some more +sticks. ’Tis very nonsense of an old man to prattle so when life and +death’s in mangling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Grandfer Cantle, with melancholy conviction. +“Well, this is a bad night altogether for them that have done well in +their time; and if I were ever such a dab at the hautboy or tenor viol, I +shouldn’t have the heart to play tunes upon ’em now.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan now arrived with the frying pan, when the live adder was killed and the +heads of the three taken off. The remainders, being cut into lengths and split +open, were tossed into the pan, which began hissing and crackling over the +fire. Soon a rill of clear oil trickled from the carcases, whereupon Clym +dipped the corner of his handkerchief into the liquid and anointed the wound. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>VIII.<br /> +Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil</h2> + +<p> +In the meantime Eustacia, left alone in her cottage at Alderworth, had become +considerably depressed by the posture of affairs. The consequences which might +result from Clym’s discovery that his mother had been turned from his +door that day were likely to be disagreeable, and this was a quality in events +which she hated as much as the dreadful. +</p> + +<p> +To be left to pass the evening by herself was irksome to her at any time, and +this evening it was more irksome than usual by reason of the excitements of the +past hours. The two visits had stirred her into restlessness. She was not +wrought to any great pitch of uneasiness by the probability of appearing in an +ill light in the discussion between Clym and his mother, but she was wrought to +vexation, and her slumbering activities were quickened to the extent of wishing +that she had opened the door. She had certainly believed that Clym was awake, +and the excuse would be an honest one as far as it went; but nothing could save +her from censure in refusing to answer at the first knock. Yet, instead of +blaming herself for the issue she laid the fault upon the shoulders of some +indistinct, colossal Prince of the World, who had framed her situation and +ruled her lot. +</p> + +<p> +At this time of the year it was pleasanter to walk by night than by day, and +when Clym had been absent about an hour she suddenly resolved to go out in the +direction of Blooms-End, on the chance of meeting him on his return. When she +reached the garden gate she heard wheels approaching, and looking round beheld +her grandfather coming up in his car. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t stay a minute, thank ye,” he answered to her +greeting. “I am driving to East Egdon; but I came round here just to tell +you the news. Perhaps you have heard—about Mr. Wildeve’s +fortune?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Eustacia blankly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he has come into a fortune of eleven thousand pounds—uncle +died in Canada, just after hearing that all his family, whom he was sending +home, had gone to the bottom in the Cassiopeia; so Wildeve has come into +everything, without in the least expecting it.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia stood motionless awhile. “How long has he known of this?” +she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it was known to him this morning early, for I knew it at ten +o’clock, when Charley came back. Now, he is what I call a lucky man. What +a fool you were, Eustacia!” +</p> + +<p> +“In what way?” she said, lifting her eyes in apparent calmness. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, in not sticking to him when you had him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had him, indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know there had ever been anything between you till lately; +and, faith, I should have been hot and strong against it if I had known; but +since it seems that there was some sniffing between ye, why the deuce +didn’t you stick to him?” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia made no reply, but she looked as if she could say as much upon that +subject as he if she chose. +</p> + +<p> +“And how is your poor purblind husband?” continued the old man. +“Not a bad fellow either, as far as he goes.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is quite well.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a good thing for his cousin what-d’ye-call-her? By George, +you ought to have been in that galley, my girl! Now I must drive on. Do you +want any assistance? What’s mine is yours, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Grandfather, we are not in want at present,” she said +coldly. “Clym cuts furze, but he does it mostly as a useful pastime, +because he can do nothing else.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is paid for his pastime, isn’t he? Three shillings a hundred, I +heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Clym has money,” she said, colouring, “but he likes to earn +a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; good night.” And the captain drove on. +</p> + +<p> +When her grandfather was gone Eustacia went on her way mechanically; but her +thoughts were no longer concerning her mother-in-law and Clym. Wildeve, +notwithstanding his complaints against his fate, had been seized upon by +destiny and placed in the sunshine once more. Eleven thousand pounds! From +every Egdon point of view he was a rich man. In Eustacia’s eyes, too, it +was an ample sum—one sufficient to supply those wants of hers which had +been stigmatized by Clym in his more austere moods as vain and luxurious. +Though she was no lover of money she loved what money could bring; and the new +accessories she imagined around him clothed Wildeve with a great deal of +interest. She recollected now how quietly well-dressed he had been that +morning—he had probably put on his newest suit, regardless of damage by +briars and thorns. And then she thought of his manner towards herself. +</p> + +<p> +“O I see it, I see it,” she said. “How much he wishes he had +me now, that he might give me all I desire!” +</p> + +<p> +In recalling the details of his glances and words—at the time scarcely +regarded—it became plain to her how greatly they had been dictated by his +knowledge of this new event. “Had he been a man to bear a jilt ill-will +he would have told me of his good fortune in crowing tones; instead of doing +that he mentioned not a word, in deference to my misfortunes, and merely +implied that he loved me still, as one superior to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve’s silence that day on what had happened to him was just the kind +of behaviour calculated to make an impression on such a woman. Those delicate +touches of good taste were, in fact, one of the strong points in his demeanour +towards the other sex. The peculiarity of Wildeve was that, while at one time +passionate, upbraiding, and resentful towards a woman, at another he would +treat her with such unparalleled grace as to make previous neglect appear as no +discourtesy, injury as no insult, interference as a delicate attention, and the +ruin of her honour as excess of chivalry. This man, whose admiration today +Eustacia had disregarded, whose good wishes she had scarcely taken the trouble +to accept, whom she had shown out of the house by the back door, was the +possessor of eleven thousand pounds—a man of fair professional education, +and one who had served his articles with a civil engineer. +</p> + +<p> +So intent was Eustacia upon Wildeve’s fortunes that she forgot how much +closer to her own course were those of Clym; and instead of walking on to meet +him at once she sat down upon a stone. She was disturbed in her reverie by a +voice behind, and turning her head beheld the old lover and fortunate inheritor +of wealth immediately beside her. +</p> + +<p> +She remained sitting, though the fluctuation in her look might have told any +man who knew her so well as Wildeve that she was thinking of him. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you come here?” she said in her clear low tone. “I +thought you were at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“I went on to the village after leaving your garden; and now I have come +back again—that’s all. Which way are you walking, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +She waved her hand in the direction of Blooms-End. “I am going to meet my +husband. I think I may possibly have got into trouble whilst you were with me +today.” +</p> + +<p> +“How could that be?” +</p> + +<p> +“By not letting in Mrs. Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that visit of mine did you no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“None. It was not your fault,” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +By this time she had risen; and they involuntarily sauntered on together, +without speaking, for two or three minutes; when Eustacia broke silence by +saying, “I assume I must congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +“On what? O yes; on my eleven thousand pounds, you mean. Well, since I +didn’t get something else, I must be content with getting that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You seem very indifferent about it. Why didn’t you tell me today +when you came?” she said in the tone of a neglected person. “I +heard of it quite by accident.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did mean to tell you,” said Wildeve. “But I—well, I +will speak frankly—I did not like to mention it when I saw, Eustacia, +that your star was not high. The sight of a man lying wearied out with hard +work, as your husband lay, made me feel that to brag of my own fortune to you +would be greatly out of place. Yet, as you stood there beside him, I could not +help feeling too that in many respects he was a richer man than I.” +</p> + +<p> +At this Eustacia said, with slumbering mischievousness, “What, would you +exchange with him—your fortune for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly would,” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“As we are imagining what is impossible and absurd, suppose we change the +subject?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; and I will tell you of my plans for the future, if you care +to hear them. I shall permanently invest nine thousand pounds, keep one +thousand as ready money, and with the remaining thousand travel for a year or +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Travel? What a bright idea! Where will you go to?” +</p> + +<p> +“From here to Paris, where I shall pass the winter and spring. Then I +shall go to Italy, Greece, Egypt, and Palestine, before the hot weather comes +on. In the summer I shall go to America; and then, by a plan not yet settled, I +shall go to Australia and round to India. By that time I shall have begun to +have had enough of it. Then I shall probably come back to Paris again, and +there I shall stay as long as I can afford to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Back to Paris again,” she murmured in a voice that was nearly a +sigh. She had never once told Wildeve of the Parisian desires which +Clym’s description had sown in her; yet here was he involuntarily in a +position to gratify them. “You think a good deal of Paris?” she +added. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. In my opinion it is the central beauty-spot of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in mine! And Thomasin will go with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if she cares to. She may prefer to stay at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you will be going about, and I shall be staying here!” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you will. But we know whose fault that is.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not blaming you,” she said quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I thought you were. If ever you <i>should</i> be inclined to blame +me, think of a certain evening by Rainbarrow, when you promised to meet me and +did not. You sent me a letter; and my heart ached to read that as I hope yours +never will. That was one point of divergence. I then did something in haste.... +But she is a good woman, and I will say no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that the blame was on my side that time,” said Eustacia. +“But it had not always been so. However, it is my misfortune to be too +sudden in feeling. O, Damon, don’t reproach me any more—I +can’t bear that.” +</p> + +<p> +They went on silently for a distance of two or three miles, when Eustacia said +suddenly, “Haven’t you come out of your way, Mr. Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“My way is anywhere tonight. I will go with you as far as the hill on +which we can see Blooms-End, as it is getting late for you to be alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t trouble. I am not obliged to be out at all. I think I would +rather you did not accompany me further. This sort of thing would have an odd +look if known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, I will leave you.” He took her hand unexpectedly, and +kissed it—for the first time since her marriage. “What light is +that on the hill?” he added, as it were to hide the caress. +</p> + +<p> +She looked, and saw a flickering firelight proceeding from the open side of a +hovel a little way before them. The hovel, which she had hitherto always found +empty, seemed to be inhabited now. +</p> + +<p> +“Since you have come so far,” said Eustacia, “will you see me +safely past that hut? I thought I should have met Clym somewhere about here, +but as he doesn’t appear I will hasten on and get to Blooms-End before he +leaves.” +</p> + +<p> +They advanced to the turf-shed, and when they got near it the firelight and the +lantern inside showed distinctly enough the form of a woman reclining on a bed +of fern, a group of heath men and women standing around her. Eustacia did not +recognize Mrs. Yeobright in the reclining figure, nor Clym as one of the +standers-by till she came close. Then she quickly pressed her hand up on +Wildeve’s arm and signified to him to come back from the open side of the +shed into the shadow. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my husband and his mother,” she whispered in an agitated +voice. “What can it mean? Will you step forward and tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve left her side and went to the back wall of the hut. Presently Eustacia +perceived that he was beckoning to her, and she advanced and joined him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a serious case,” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +From their position they could hear what was proceeding inside. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot think where she could have been going,” said Clym to +someone. “She had evidently walked a long way, but even when she was able +to speak just now she would not tell me where. What do you really think of +her?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a great deal to fear,” was gravely answered, in a voice +which Eustacia recognized as that of the only surgeon in the district. +“She has suffered somewhat from the bite of the adder; but it is +exhaustion which has overpowered her. My impression is that her walk must have +been exceptionally long.” +</p> + +<p> +“I used to tell her not to overwalk herself this weather,” said +Clym, with distress. “Do you think we did well in using the adder’s +fat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is a very ancient remedy—the old remedy of the +viper-catchers, I believe,” replied the doctor. “It is mentioned as +an infallible ointment by Hoffman, Mead, and I think the Abbé Fontana. +Undoubtedly it was as good a thing as you could do; though I question if some +other oils would not have been equally efficacious.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, come here!” was then rapidly said in anxious female +tones, and Clym and the doctor could be heard rushing forward from the back +part of the shed to where Mrs. Yeobright lay. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what is it?” whispered Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas Thomasin who spoke,” said Wildeve. “Then they +have fetched her. I wonder if I had better go in—yet it might do +harm.” +</p> + +<p> +For a long time there was utter silence among the group within; and it was +broken at last by Clym saying, in an agonized voice, “O Doctor, what does +it mean?” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor did not reply at once; ultimately he said, “She is sinking +fast. Her heart was previously affected, and physical exhaustion has dealt the +finishing blow.” +</p> + +<p> +Then there was a weeping of women, then waiting, then hushed exclamations, then +a strange gasping sound, then a painful stillness. +</p> + +<p> +“It is all over,” said the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +Further back in the hut the cotters whispered, “Mrs. Yeobright is +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Almost at the same moment the two watchers observed the form of a small +old-fashioned child entering at the open side of the shed. Susan Nunsuch, whose +boy it was, went forward to the opening and silently beckoned to him to go +back. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got something to tell ’ee, Mother,” he cried in a +shrill tone. “That woman asleep there walked along with me today; and she +said I was to say that I had seed her, and she was a broken-hearted woman and +cast off by her son, and then I came on home.” +</p> + +<p> +A confused sob as from a man was heard within, upon which Eustacia gasped +faintly, “That’s Clym—I must go to him—yet dare I do +it? No—come away!” +</p> + +<p> +When they had withdrawn from the neighbourhood of the shed she said huskily, +“I am to blame for this. There is evil in store for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was she not admitted to your house after all?” Wildeve inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“No, and that’s where it all lies! Oh, what shall I do! I shall not +intrude upon them—I shall go straight home. Damon, good-bye! I cannot +speak to you any more now.” +</p> + +<p> +They parted company; and when Eustacia had reached the next hill she looked +back. A melancholy procession was wending its way by the light of the lantern +from the hut towards Blooms-End. Wildeve was nowhere to be seen. +</p> +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book05"></a>BOOK FIFTH—THE DISCOVERY</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>I.<br /> +“Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery”</h2> + +<p> +One evening, about three weeks after the funeral of Mrs. Yeobright, when the +silver face of the moon sent a bundle of beams directly upon the floor of +Clym’s house at Alderworth, a woman came forth from within. She reclined +over the garden gate as if to refresh herself awhile. The pale lunar touches +which make beauties of hags lent divinity to this face, already beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +She had not long been there when a man came up the road and with some +hesitation said to her, “How is he tonight, ma’am, if you +please?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is better, though still very unwell, Humphrey,” replied +Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he light-headed, ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He is quite sensible now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do he rave about his mother just the same, poor fellow?” continued +Humphrey. +</p> + +<p> +“Just as much, though not quite so wildly,” she said in a low +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It was very unfortunate, ma’am, that the boy Johnny should ever +ha’ told him his mother’s dying words, about her being +broken-hearted and cast off by her son. ’Twas enough to upset any man +alive.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia made no reply beyond that of a slight catch in her breath, as of one +who fain would speak but could not; and Humphrey, declining her invitation to +come in, went away. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia turned, entered the house, and ascended to the front bedroom, where a +shaded light was burning. In the bed lay Clym, pale, haggard, wide awake, +tossing to one side and to the other, his eyes lit by a hot light, as if the +fire in their pupils were burning up their substance. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you, Eustacia?” he said as she sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Clym. I have been down to the gate. The moon is shining +beautifully, and there is not a leaf stirring.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shining, is it? What’s the moon to a man like me? Let it +shine—let anything be, so that I never see another day!... Eustacia, I +don’t know where to look—my thoughts go through me like swords. O, +if any man wants to make himself immortal by painting a picture of +wretchedness, let him come here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you say so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help feeling that I did my best to kill her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it was so; it is useless to excuse me! My conduct to her was too +hideous—I made no advances; and she could not bring herself to forgive +me. Now she is dead! If I had only shown myself willing to make it up with her +sooner, and we had been friends, and then she had died, it wouldn’t be so +hard to bear. But I never went near her house, so she never came near mine, and +didn’t know how welcome she would have been—that’s what +troubles me. She did not know I was going to her house that very night, for she +was too insensible to understand me. If she had only come to see me! I longed +that she would. But it was not to be.” +</p> + +<p> +There escaped from Eustacia one of those shivering sighs which used to shake +her like a pestilent blast. She had not yet told. +</p> + +<p> +But Yeobright was too deeply absorbed in the ramblings incidental to his +remorseful state to notice her. During his illness he had been continually +talking thus. Despair had been added to his original grief by the unfortunate +disclosure of the boy who had received the last words of Mrs. +Yeobright—words too bitterly uttered in an hour of misapprehension. Then +his distress had overwhelmed him, and he longed for death as a field labourer +longs for the shade. It was the pitiful sight of a man standing in the very +focus of sorrow. He continually bewailed his tardy journey to his +mother’s house, because it was an error which could never be rectified, +and insisted that he must have been horribly perverted by some fiend not to +have thought before that it was his duty to go to her, since she did not come +to him. He would ask Eustacia to agree with him in his self-condemnation; and +when she, seared inwardly by a secret she dared not tell, declared that she +could not give an opinion, he would say, “That’s because you +didn’t know my mother’s nature. She was always ready to forgive if +asked to do so; but I seemed to her to be as an obstinate child, and that made +her unyielding. Yet not unyielding—she was proud and reserved, no +more.... Yes, I can understand why she held out against me so long. She was +waiting for me. I dare say she said a hundred times in her sorrow, ‘What +a return he makes for all the sacrifices I have made for him!’ I never +went to her! When I set out to visit her it was too late. To think of that is +nearly intolerable!” +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes his condition had been one of utter remorse, unsoftened by a single +tear of pure sorrow: and then he writhed as he lay, fevered far more by thought +than by physical ills. “If I could only get one assurance that she did +not die in a belief that I was resentful,” he said one day when in this +mood, “it would be better to think of than a hope of heaven. But that I +cannot do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You give yourself up too much to this wearying despair,” said +Eustacia. “Other men’s mothers have died.” +</p> + +<p> +“That doesn’t make the loss of mine less. Yet it is less the loss +than the circumstances of the loss. I sinned against her, and on that account +there is no light for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She sinned against you, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she did not. I committed the guilt; and may the whole burden be upon +my head!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you might consider twice before you say that,” Eustacia +replied. “Single men have, no doubt, a right to curse themselves as much +as they please; but men with wives involve two in the doom they pray +down.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am in too sorry a state to understand what you are refining on,” +said the wretched man. “Day and night shout at me, ‘You have helped +to kill her.’ But in loathing myself I may, I own, be unjust to you, my +poor wife. Forgive me for it, Eustacia, for I scarcely know what I do.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia was always anxious to avoid the sight of her husband in such a state +as this, which had become as dreadful to her as the trial scene was to Judas +Iscariot. It brought before her eyes the spectre of a worn-out woman knocking +at a door which she would not open; and she shrank from contemplating it. Yet +it was better for Yeobright himself when he spoke openly of his sharp regret, +for in silence he endured infinitely more, and would sometimes remain so long +in a tense, brooding mood, consuming himself by the gnawing of his thought, +that it was imperatively necessary to make him talk aloud, that his grief might +in some degree expend itself in the effort. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia had not been long indoors after her look at the moonlight when a soft +footstep came up to the house, and Thomasin was announced by the woman +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Thomasin! Thank you for coming tonight,” said Clym when she +entered the room. “Here am I, you see. Such a wretched spectacle am I, +that I shrink from being seen by a single friend, and almost from you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not shrink from me, dear Clym,” said Thomasin earnestly, +in that sweet voice of hers which came to a sufferer like fresh air into a +Black Hole. “Nothing in you can ever shock me or drive me away. I have +been here before, but you don’t remember it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do; I am not delirious, Thomasin, nor have I been so at all. +Don’t you believe that if they say so. I am only in great misery at what +I have done, and that, with the weakness, makes me seem mad. But it has not +upset my reason. Do you think I should remember all about my mother’s +death if I were out of my mind? No such good luck. Two months and a half, +Thomasin, the last of her life, did my poor mother live alone, distracted and +mourning because of me; yet she was unvisited by me, though I was living only +six miles off. Two months and a half—seventy-five days did the sun rise +and set upon her in that deserted state which a dog didn’t deserve! Poor +people who had nothing in common with her would have cared for her, and visited +her had they known her sickness and loneliness; but I, who should have been all +to her, stayed away like a cur. If there is any justice in God let Him kill me +now. He has nearly blinded me, but that is not enough. If He would only strike +me with more pain I would believe in Him forever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, hush! O, pray, Clym, don’t, don’t say it!” +implored Thomasin, affrighted into sobs and tears; while Eustacia, at the other +side of the room, though her pale face remained calm, writhed in her chair. +Clym went on without heeding his cousin. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am not worth receiving further proof even of Heaven’s +reprobation. Do you think, Thomasin, that she knew me—that she did not +die in that horrid mistaken notion about my not forgiving her, which I +can’t tell you how she acquired? If you could only assure me of that! Do +you think so, Eustacia? Do speak to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I can assure you that she knew better at last,” said +Thomasin. The pallid Eustacia said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t she come to my house? I would have taken her in and +showed her how I loved her in spite of all. But she never came; and I +didn’t go to her, and she died on the heath like an animal kicked out, +nobody to help her till it was too late. If you could have seen her, Thomasin, +as I saw her—a poor dying woman, lying in the dark upon the bare ground, +moaning, nobody near, believing she was utterly deserted by all the world, it +would have moved you to anguish, it would have moved a brute. And this poor +woman my mother! No wonder she said to the child, ‘You have seen a +broken-hearted woman.’ What a state she must have been brought to, to say +that! and who can have done it but I? It is too dreadful to think of, and I +wish I could be punished more heavily than I am. How long was I what they +called out of my senses?” +</p> + +<p> +“A week, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then I became calm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for four days.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now I have left off being calm.” +</p> + +<p> +“But try to be quiet—please do, and you will soon be strong. If you +could remove that impression from your mind—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “But I don’t want to +get strong. What’s the use of my getting well? It would be better for me +if I die, and it would certainly be better for Eustacia. Is Eustacia +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be better for you, Eustacia, if I were to die?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t press such a question, dear Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it really is but a shadowy supposition; for unfortunately I am +going to live. I feel myself getting better. Thomasin, how long are you going +to stay at the inn, now that all this money has come to your husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“Another month or two, probably; until my illness is over. We cannot get +off till then. I think it will be a month or more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. Of course. Ah, Cousin Tamsie, you will get over your +trouble—one little month will take you through it, and bring something to +console you; but I shall never get over mine, and no consolation will +come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clym, you are unjust to yourself. Depend upon it, Aunt thought kindly of +you. I know that, if she had lived, you would have been reconciled with +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she didn’t come to see me, though I asked her, before I +married, if she would come. Had she come, or had I gone there, she would never +have died saying, ‘I am a broken-hearted woman, cast off by my +son.’ My door has always been open to her—a welcome here has always +awaited her. But that she never came to see.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better not talk any more now, Clym,” said Eustacia faintly +from the other part of the room, for the scene was growing intolerable to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me talk to you instead for the little time I shall be here,” +Thomasin said soothingly. “Consider what a one-sided way you have of +looking at the matter, Clym. When she said that to the little boy you had not +found her and taken her into your arms; and it might have been uttered in a +moment of bitterness. It was rather like Aunt to say things in haste. She +sometimes used to speak so to me. Though she did not come I am convinced that +she thought of coming to see you. Do you suppose a man’s mother could +live two or three months without one forgiving thought? She forgave me; and why +should she not have forgiven you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You laboured to win her round; I did nothing. I, who was going to teach +people the higher secrets of happiness, did not know how to keep out of that +gross misery which the most untaught are wise enough to avoid.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get here tonight, Thomasin?” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“Damon set me down at the end of the lane. He has driven into East Egdon +on business, and he will come and pick me up by-and-by.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had come, and +was waiting outside with his horse and gig. +</p> + +<p> +“Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes,” said +Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +“I will run down myself,” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +She went down. Wildeve had alighted, and was standing before the horse’s +head when Eustacia opened the door. He did not turn for a moment, thinking the +comer Thomasin. Then he looked, startled ever so little, and said one word: +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not yet told him,” she replied in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Then don’t do so till he is well—it will be fatal. You are +ill yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am wretched.... O Damon,” she said, bursting into tears, +“I—I can’t tell you how unhappy I am! I can hardly bear this. +I can tell nobody of my trouble—nobody knows of it but you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor girl!” said Wildeve, visibly affected at her distress, and at +last led on so far as to take her hand. “It is hard, when you have done +nothing to deserve it, that you should have got involved in such a web as this. +You were not made for these sad scenes. I am to blame most. If I could only +have saved you from it all!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Damon, please pray tell me what I must do? To sit by him hour after +hour, and hear him reproach himself as being the cause of her death, and to +know that I am the sinner, if any human being is at all, drives me into cold +despair. I don’t know what to do. Should I tell him or should I not tell +him? I always am asking myself that. O, I want to tell him; and yet I am +afraid. If he finds it out he must surely kill me, for nothing else will be in +proportion to his feelings now. ‘Beware the fury of a patient man’ +sounds day by day in my ears as I watch him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, wait till he is better, and trust to chance. And when you tell, +you must only tell part—for his own sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which part should I keep back?” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve paused. “That I was in the house at the time,” he said in a +low tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; it must be concealed, seeing what has been whispered. How much +easier are hasty actions than speeches that will excuse them!” +</p> + +<p> +“If he were only to die—” Wildeve murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not think of it! I would not buy hope of immunity by so cowardly a +desire even if I hated him. Now I am going up to him again. Thomasin bade me +tell you she would be down in a few minutes. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +She returned, and Thomasin soon appeared. When she was seated in the gig with +her husband, and the horse was turning to go off, Wildeve lifted his eyes to +the bedroom windows. Looking from one of them he could discern a pale, tragic +face watching him drive away. It was Eustacia’s. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>II.<br /> +A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding</h2> + +<p> +Clym’s grief became mitigated by wearing itself out. His strength +returned, and a month after the visit of Thomasin he might have been seen +walking about the garden. Endurance and despair, equanimity and gloom, the +tints of health and the pallor of death, mingled weirdly in his face. He was +now unnaturally silent upon all of the past that related to his mother; and +though Eustacia knew that he was thinking of it none the less, she was only too +glad to escape the topic ever to bring it up anew. When his mind had been +weaker his heart had led him to speak out; but reason having now somewhat +recovered itself he sank into taciturnity. +</p> + +<p> +One evening when he was thus standing in the garden, abstractedly spudding up a +weed with his stick, a bony figure turned the corner of the house and came up +to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Christian, isn’t it?” said Clym. “I am glad you have +found me out. I shall soon want you to go to Blooms-End and assist me in +putting the house in order. I suppose it is all locked up as I left it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mister Clym.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you dug up the potatoes and other roots?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, without a drop o’ rain, thank God. But I was coming to tell +’ee of something else which is quite different from what we have lately +had in the family. I am sent by the rich gentleman at the Woman, that we used +to call the landlord, to tell ’ee that Mrs. Wildeve is doing well of a +girl, which was born punctually at one o’clock at noon, or a few minutes +more or less; and ’tis said that expecting of this increase is what have +kept ’em there since they came into their money.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she is getting on well, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. Only Mr. Wildeve is twanky because ’tisn’t a +boy—that’s what they say in the kitchen, but I was not supposed to +notice that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Christian, now listen to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sure, Mr. Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see my mother the day before she died?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I did not.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright’s face expressed disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +“But I zeed her the morning of the same day she died.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym’s look lighted up. “That’s nearer still to my +meaning,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know ’twas the same day; for she said, ‘I be going to +see him, Christian; so I shall not want any vegetables brought in for +dinner.’” +</p> + +<p> +“See whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“See you. She was going to your house, you understand.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright regarded Christian with intense surprise. “Why did you never +mention this?” he said. “Are you sure it was my house she was +coming to?” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes. I didn’t mention it because I’ve never zeed you +lately. And as she didn’t get there it was all nought, and nothing to +tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have been wondering why she should have walked in the heath on +that hot day! Well, did she say what she was coming for? It is a thing, +Christian, I am very anxious to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mister Clym. She didn’t say it to me, though I think she did +to one here and there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know one person to whom she spoke of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is one man, please, sir, but I hope you won’t mention my +name to him, as I have seen him in strange places, particular in dreams. One +night last summer he glared at me like Famine and Sword, and it made me feel so +low that I didn’t comb out my few hairs for two days. He was standing, as +it might be, Mister Yeobright, in the middle of the path to Mistover, and your +mother came up, looking as pale—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, when was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Last summer, in my dream.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! Who’s the man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Diggory, the reddleman. He called upon her and sat with her the evening +before she set out to see you. I hadn’t gone home from work when he came +up to the gate.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must see Venn—I wish I had known it before,” said Clym +anxiously. “I wonder why he has not come to tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“He went out of Egdon Heath the next day, so would not be likely to know +you wanted him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Christian,” said Clym, “you must go and find Venn. I am +otherwise engaged, or I would go myself. Find him at once, and tell him I want +to speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a good hand at hunting up folk by day,” said Christian, +looking dubiously round at the declining light; “but as to night-time, +never is such a bad hand as I, Mister Yeobright.” +</p> + +<p> +“Search the heath when you will, so that you bring him soon. Bring him +tomorrow, if you can.” +</p> + +<p> +Christian then departed. The morrow came, but no Venn. In the evening Christian +arrived, looking very weary. He had been searching all day, and had heard +nothing of the reddleman. +</p> + +<p> +“Inquire as much as you can tomorrow without neglecting your work,” +said Yeobright. “Don’t come again till you have found him.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day Yeobright set out for the old house at Blooms-End, which, with the +garden, was now his own. His severe illness had hindered all preparations for +his removal thither; but it had become necessary that he should go and overlook +its contents, as administrator to his mother’s little property; for which +purpose he decided to pass the next night on the premises. +</p> + +<p> +He journeyed onward, not quickly or decisively, but in the slow walk of one who +has been awakened from a stupefying sleep. It was early afternoon when he +reached the valley. The expression of the place, the tone of the hour, were +precisely those of many such occasions in days gone by; and these antecedent +similarities fostered the illusion that she, who was there no longer, would +come out to welcome him. The garden gate was locked and the shutters were +closed, just as he himself had left them on the evening after the funeral. He +unlocked the gate, and found that a spider had already constructed a large web, +tying the door to the lintel, on the supposition that it was never to be opened +again. When he had entered the house and flung back the shutters he set about +his task of overhauling the cupboards and closets, burning papers, and +considering how best to arrange the place for Eustacia’s reception, until +such time as he might be in a position to carry out his long-delayed scheme, +should that time ever arrive. +</p> + +<p> +As he surveyed the rooms he felt strongly disinclined for the alterations which +would have to be made in the time-honoured furnishing of his parents and +grandparents, to suit Eustacia’s modern ideas. The gaunt oak-cased clock, +with the picture of the Ascension on the door panel and the Miraculous Draught +of Fishes on the base; his grandmother’s corner cupboard with the glass +door, through which the spotted china was visible; the dumb-waiter; the wooden +tea trays; the hanging fountain with the brass tap—whither would these +venerable articles have to be banished? +</p> + +<p> +He noticed that the flowers in the window had died for want of water, and he +placed them out upon the ledge, that they might be taken away. While thus +engaged he heard footsteps on the gravel without, and somebody knocked at the +door. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright opened it, and Venn was standing before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning,” said the reddleman. “Is Mrs. Yeobright at +home?” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright looked upon the ground. “Then you have not seen Christian or +any of the Egdon folks?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No. I have only just returned after a long stay away. I called here the +day before I left.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have heard nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother is—dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead!” said Venn mechanically. +</p> + +<p> +“Her home now is where I shouldn’t mind having mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn regarded him, and then said, “If I didn’t see your face I +could never believe your words. Have you been ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had an illness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the change! When I parted from her a month ago everything seemed +to say that she was going to begin a new life.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what seemed came true.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say right, no doubt. Trouble has taught you a deeper vein of talk +than mine. All I meant was regarding her life here. She has died too +soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps through my living too long. I have had a bitter experience on +that score this last month, Diggory. But come in; I have been wanting to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +He conducted the reddleman into the large room where the dancing had taken +place the previous Christmas, and they sat down in the settle together. +“There’s the cold fireplace, you see,” said Clym. “When +that half-burnt log and those cinders were alight she was alive! Little has +been changed here yet. I can do nothing. My life creeps like a snail.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came she to die?” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright gave him some particulars of her illness and death, and continued: +“After this no kind of pain will ever seem more than an indisposition to +me. I began saying that I wanted to ask you something, but I stray from +subjects like a drunken man. I am anxious to know what my mother said to you +when she last saw you. You talked with her a long time, I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“I talked with her more than half an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“About me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And it must have been on account of what we said that she was on +the heath. Without question she was coming to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should she come to see me if she felt so bitterly against me? +There’s the mystery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I know she quite forgave ’ee.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Diggory—would a woman, who had quite forgiven her son, say, +when she felt herself ill on the way to his house, that she was broken-hearted +because of his ill-usage? Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“What I know is that she didn’t blame you at all. She blamed +herself for what had happened, and only herself. I had it from her own +lips.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had it from her lips that I had <i>not</i> ill-treated her; and at +the same time another had it from her lips that I <i>had</i> ill-treated her? +My mother was no impulsive woman who changed her opinion every hour without +reason. How can it be, Venn, that she should have told such different stories +in close succession?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say. It is certainly odd, when she had forgiven you, and had +forgiven your wife, and was going to see ye on purpose to make friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“If there was one thing wanting to bewilder me it was this +incomprehensible thing!... Diggory, if we, who remain alive, were only allowed +to hold conversation with the dead—just once, a bare minute, even through +a screen of iron bars, as with persons in prison—what we might learn! How +many who now ride smiling would hide their heads! And this mystery—I +should then be at the bottom of it at once. But the grave has forever shut her +in; and how shall it be found out now?” +</p> + +<p> +No reply was returned by his companion, since none could be given; and when +Venn left, a few minutes later, Clym had passed from the dullness of sorrow to +the fluctuation of carking incertitude. +</p> + +<p> +He continued in the same state all the afternoon. A bed was made up for him in +the same house by a neighbour, that he might not have to return again the next +day; and when he retired to rest in the deserted place it was only to remain +awake hour after hour thinking the same thoughts. How to discover a solution to +this riddle of death seemed a query of more importance than highest problems of +the living. There was housed in his memory a vivid picture of the face of a +little boy as he entered the hovel where Clym’s mother lay. The round +eyes, eager gaze, the piping voice which enunciated the words, had operated +like stilettos on his brain. +</p> + +<p> +A visit to the boy suggested itself as a means of gleaning new particulars; +though it might be quite unproductive. To probe a child’s mind after the +lapse of six weeks, not for facts which the child had seen and understood, but +to get at those which were in their nature beyond him, did not promise much; +yet when every obvious channel is blocked we grope towards the small and +obscure. There was nothing else left to do; after that he would allow the +enigma to drop into the abyss of undiscoverable things. +</p> + +<p> +It was about daybreak when he had reached this decision, and he at once arose. +He locked up the house and went out into the green patch which merged in +heather further on. In front of the white garden-palings the path branched into +three like a broad arrow. The road to the right led to the Quiet Woman and its +neighbourhood; the middle track led to Mistover Knap; the left-hand track led +over the hill to another part of Mistover, where the child lived. On inclining +into the latter path Yeobright felt a creeping chilliness, familiar enough to +most people, and probably caused by the unsunned morning air. In after days he +thought of it as a thing of singular significance. +</p> + +<p> +When Yeobright reached the cottage of Susan Nunsuch, the mother of the boy he +sought, he found that the inmates were not yet astir. But in upland hamlets the +transition from a-bed to abroad is surprisingly swift and easy. There no dense +partition of yawns and toilets divides humanity by night from humanity by day. +Yeobright tapped at the upper windowsill, which he could reach with his walking +stick; and in three or four minutes the woman came down. +</p> + +<p> +It was not till this moment that Clym recollected her to be the person who had +behaved so barbarously to Eustacia. It partly explained the insuavity with +which the woman greeted him. Moreover, the boy had been ailing again; and Susan +now, as ever since the night when he had been pressed into Eustacia’s +service at the bonfire, attributed his indispositions to Eustacia’s +influence as a witch. It was one of those sentiments which lurk like moles +underneath the visible surface of manners, and may have been kept alive by +Eustacia’s entreaty to the captain, at the time that he had intended to +prosecute Susan for the pricking in church, to let the matter drop; which he +accordingly had done. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright overcame his repugnance, for Susan had at least borne his mother no +ill-will. He asked kindly for the boy; but her manner did not improve. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to see him,” continued Yeobright, with some hesitation, +“to ask him if he remembers anything more of his walk with my mother than +what he has previously told.” +</p> + +<p> +She regarded him in a peculiar and criticizing manner. To anybody but a +half-blind man it would have said, “You want another of the knocks which +have already laid you so low.” +</p> + +<p> +She called the boy downstairs, asked Clym to sit down on a stool, and +continued, “Now, Johnny, tell Mr. Yeobright anything you can call to +mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have not forgotten how you walked with the poor lady on that hot +day?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“And what she said to you?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy repeated the exact words he had used on entering the hut. Yeobright +rested his elbow on the table and shaded his face with his hand; and the mother +looked as if she wondered how a man could want more of what had stung him so +deeply. +</p> + +<p> +“She was going to Alderworth when you first met her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; she was coming away.” +</p> + +<p> +“That can’t be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; she walked along with me. I was coming away, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then where did you first see her?” +</p> + +<p> +“At your house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Attend, and speak the truth!” said Clym sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; at your house was where I seed her first.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym started up, and Susan smiled in an expectant way which did not embellish +her face; it seemed to mean, “Something sinister is coming!” +</p> + +<p> +“What did she do at my house?” +</p> + +<p> +“She went and sat under the trees at the Devil’s Bellows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God! this is all news to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“You never told me this before?” said Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mother; because I didn’t like to tell ’ee I had been so +far. I was picking blackhearts, and went further than I meant.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did she do then?” said Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +“Looked at a man who came up and went into your house.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was myself—a furze-cutter, with brambles in his hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; ’twas not you. ’Twas a gentleman. You had gone in +afore.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was he?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now tell me what happened next.” +</p> + +<p> +“The poor lady went and knocked at your door, and the lady with black +hair looked out of the side window at her.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s mother turned to Clym and said, “This is something you +didn’t expect?” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright took no more notice of her than if he had been of stone. “Go +on, go on,” he said hoarsely to the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“And when she saw the young lady look out of the window the old lady +knocked again; and when nobody came she took up the furze-hook and looked at +it, and put it down again, and then she looked at the faggot-bonds; and then +she went away, and walked across to me, and blowed her breath very hard, like +this. We walked on together, she and I, and I talked to her and she talked to +me a bit, but not much, because she couldn’t blow her breath.” +</p> + +<p> +“O!” murmured Clym, in a low tone, and bowed his head. +“Let’s have more,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“She couldn’t talk much, and she couldn’t walk; and her face +was, O so queer!” +</p> + +<p> +“How was her face?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like yours is now.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman looked at Yeobright, and beheld him colourless, in a cold sweat. +“Isn’t there meaning in it?” she said stealthily. “What +do you think of her now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence!” said Clym fiercely. And, turning to the boy, “And +then you left her to die?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said the woman, quickly and angrily. “He did not leave +her to die! She sent him away. Whoever says he forsook her says what’s +not true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trouble no more about that,” answered Clym, with a quivering +mouth. “What he did is a trifle in comparison with what he saw. Door kept +shut, did you say? Kept shut, she looking out of window? Good heart of +God!—what does it mean?” +</p> + +<p> +The child shrank away from the gaze of his questioner. +</p> + +<p> +“He said so,” answered the mother, “and Johnny’s a +God-fearing boy and tells no lies.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Cast off by my son!’ No, by my best life, dear mother, it +is not so! But by your son’s, your son’s—May all murderesses +get the torment they deserve!” +</p> + +<p> +With these words Yeobright went forth from the little dwelling. The pupils of +his eyes, fixed steadfastly on blankness, were vaguely lit with an icy shine; +his mouth had passed into the phase more or less imaginatively rendered in +studies of Oedipus. The strangest deeds were possible to his mood. But they +were not possible to his situation. Instead of there being before him the pale +face of Eustacia, and a masculine shape unknown, there was only the +imperturbable countenance of the heath, which, having defied the cataclysmal +onsets of centuries, reduced to insignificance by its seamed and antique +features the wildest turmoil of a single man. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>III.<br /> +Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning</h2> + +<p> +A consciousness of a vast impassivity in all which lay around him took +possession even of Yeobright in his wild walk towards Alderworth. He had once +before felt in his own person this overpowering of the fervid by the inanimate; +but then it had tended to enervate a passion far sweeter than that which at +present pervaded him. It was once when he stood parting from Eustacia in the +moist still levels beyond the hills. +</p> + +<p> +But dismissing all this he went onward home, and came to the front of his +house. The blinds of Eustacia’s bedroom were still closely drawn, for she +was no early riser. All the life visible was in the shape of a solitary thrush +cracking a small snail upon the door-stone for his breakfast, and his tapping +seemed a loud noise in the general silence which prevailed; but on going to the +door Clym found it unfastened, the young girl who attended upon Eustacia being +astir in the back part of the premises. Yeobright entered and went straight to +his wife’s room. +</p> + +<p> +The noise of his arrival must have aroused her, for when he opened the door she +was standing before the looking glass in her nightdress, the ends of her hair +gathered into one hand, with which she was coiling the whole mass round her +head, previous to beginning toilette operations. She was not a woman given to +speaking first at a meeting, and she allowed Clym to walk across in silence, +without turning her head. He came behind her, and she saw his face in the +glass. It was ashy, haggard, and terrible. Instead of starting towards him in +sorrowful surprise, as even Eustacia, undemonstrative wife as she was, would +have done in days before she burdened herself with a secret, she remained +motionless, looking at him in the glass. And while she looked the carmine flush +with which warmth and sound sleep had suffused her cheeks and neck dissolved +from view, and the deathlike pallor in his face flew across into hers. He was +close enough to see this, and the sight instigated his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“You know what is the matter,” he said huskily. “I see it in +your face.” +</p> + +<p> +Her hand relinquished the rope of hair and dropped to her side, and the pile of +tresses, no longer supported, fell from the crown of her head about her +shoulders and over the white nightgown. She made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak to me,” said Yeobright peremptorily. +</p> + +<p> +The blanching process did not cease in her, and her lips now became as white as +her face. She turned to him and said, “Yes, Clym, I’ll speak to +you. Why do you return so early? Can I do anything for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you can listen to me. It seems that my wife is not very +well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your face, my dear; your face. Or perhaps it is the pale morning light +which takes your colour away? Now I am going to reveal a secret to you. +Ha-ha!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, that is ghastly!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your laugh.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s reason for ghastliness. Eustacia, you have held my +happiness in the hollow of your hand, and like a devil you have dashed it +down!” +</p> + +<p> +She started back from the dressing-table, retreated a few steps from him, and +looked him in the face. “Ah! you think to frighten me,” she said, +with a slight laugh. “Is it worth while? I am undefended, and +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“How extraordinary!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“As there is ample time I will tell you, though you know well enough. I +mean that it is extraordinary that you should be alone in my absence. Tell me, +now, where is he who was with you on the afternoon of the thirty-first of +August? Under the bed? Up the chimney?” +</p> + +<p> +A shudder overcame her and shook the light fabric of her nightdress throughout. +“I do not remember dates so exactly,” she said. “I cannot +recollect that anybody was with me besides yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“The day I mean,” said Yeobright, his voice growing louder and +harsher, “was the day you shut the door against my mother and killed her. +O, it is too much—too bad!” He leant over the footpiece of the +bedstead for a few moments, with his back towards her; then rising +again—“Tell me, tell me! tell me—do you hear?” he +cried, rushing up to her and seizing her by the loose folds of her sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +The superstratum of timidity which often overlies those who are daring and +defiant at heart had been passed through, and the mettlesome substance of the +woman was reached. The red blood inundated her face, previously so pale. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” she said in a low voice, regarding him +with a proud smile. “You will not alarm me by holding on so; but it would +be a pity to tear my sleeve.” +</p> + +<p> +Instead of letting go he drew her closer to him. “Tell me the particulars +of—my mother’s death,” he said in a hard, panting whisper; +“or—I’ll—I’ll—” +</p> + +<p> +“Clym,” she answered slowly, “do you think you dare do +anything to me that I dare not bear? But before you strike me listen. You will +get nothing from me by a blow, even though it should kill me, as it probably +will. But perhaps you do not wish me to speak—killing may be all you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Kill you! Do you expect it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“No less degree of rage against me will match your previous grief for +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Phew—I shall not kill you,” he said contemptuously, as if +under a sudden change of purpose. “I did think of it; but—I shall +not. That would be making a martyr of you, and sending you to where she is; and +I would keep you away from her till the universe come to an end, if I +could.” +</p> + +<p> +“I almost wish you would kill me,” said she with gloomy bitterness. +“It is with no strong desire, I assure you, that I play the part I have +lately played on earth. You are no blessing, my husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shut the door—you looked out of the window upon her—you +had a man in the house with you—you sent her away to die. The +inhumanity—the treachery—I will not touch you—stand away from +me—and confess every word!” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! I’ll hold my tongue like the very death that I don’t +mind meeting, even though I can clear myself of half you believe by speaking. +Yes. I will! Who of any dignity would take the trouble to clear cobwebs from a +wild man’s mind after such language as this? No; let him go on, and think +his narrow thoughts, and run his head into the mire. I have other cares.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis too much—but I must spare you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor charity.” +</p> + +<p> +“By my wretched soul you sting me, Eustacia! I can keep it up, and hotly +too. Now, then, madam, tell me his name!” +</p> + +<p> +“Never, I am resolved.” +</p> + +<p> +“How often does he write to you? Where does he put his letters—when +does he meet you? Ah, his letters! Do you tell me his name?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll find it myself.” His eyes had fallen upon a small +desk that stood near, on which she was accustomed to write her letters. He went +to it. It was locked. +</p> + +<p> +“Unlock this!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to say it. That’s mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Without another word he seized the desk and dashed it to the floor. The hinge +burst open, and a number of letters tumbled out. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” said Eustacia, stepping before him with more excitement +than she had hitherto shown. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come! stand away! I must see them.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at the letters as they lay, checked her feeling and moved +indifferently aside; when he gathered them up, and examined them. +</p> + +<p> +By no stretch of meaning could any but a harmless construction be placed upon a +single one of the letters themselves. The solitary exception was an empty +envelope directed to her, and the handwriting was Wildeve’s. Yeobright +held it up. Eustacia was doggedly silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you read, madam? Look at this envelope. Doubtless we shall find more +soon, and what was inside them. I shall no doubt be gratified by learning in +good time what a well-finished and full-blown adept in a certain trade my lady +is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you say it to me—do you?” she gasped. +</p> + +<p> +He searched further, but found nothing more. “What was in this +letter?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask the writer. Am I your hound that you should talk to me in this +way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you brave me? do you stand me out, mistress? Answer. Don’t look +at me with those eyes if you would bewitch me again! Sooner than that I die. +You refuse to answer?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t tell you after this, if I were as innocent as the +sweetest babe in heaven!” +</p> + +<p> +“Which you are not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I am not absolutely,” she replied. “I have not +done what you suppose; but if to have done no harm at all is the only innocence +recognized, I am beyond forgiveness. But I require no help from your +conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can resist, and resist again! Instead of hating you I could, I +think, mourn for and pity you, if you were contrite, and would confess all. +Forgive you I never can. I don’t speak of your lover—I will give +you the benefit of the doubt in that matter, for it only affects me personally. +But the other—had you half-killed <i>me</i>, had it been that you +wilfully took the sight away from these feeble eyes of mine, I could have +forgiven you. But <i>that’s</i> too much for nature!” +</p> + +<p> +“Say no more. I will do without your pity. But I would have saved you +from uttering what you will regret.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going away now. I shall leave you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not go, as I am going myself. You will keep just as far away +from me by staying here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Call her to mind—think of her—what goodness there was in +her—it showed in every line of her face! Most women, even when but +slightly annoyed, show a flicker of evil in some curl of the mouth or some +corner of the cheek; but as for her, never in her angriest moments was there +anything malicious in her look. She was angered quickly, but she forgave just +as readily, and underneath her pride there was the meekness of a child. What +came of it?—what cared you? You hated her just as she was learning to +love you. O! couldn’t you see what was best for you, but must bring a +curse upon me, and agony and death upon her, by doing that cruel deed! What was +the fellow’s name who was keeping you company and causing you to add +cruelty to her to your wrong to me? Was it Wildeve? Was it poor +Thomasin’s husband? Heaven, what wickedness! Lost your voice, have you? +It is natural after detection of that most noble trick.... Eustacia, +didn’t any tender thought of your own mother lead you to think of being +gentle to mine at such a time of weariness? Did not one grain of pity enter +your heart as she turned away? Think what a vast opportunity was then lost of +beginning a forgiving and honest course. Why did not you kick him out, and let +her in, and say I’ll be an honest wife and a noble woman from this hour? +Had I told you to go and quench eternally our last flickering chance of +happiness here you could have done no worse. Well, she’s asleep now; and +have you a hundred gallants, neither they nor you can insult her any +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“You exaggerate fearfully,” she said in a faint, weary voice; +“but I cannot enter into my defence—it is not worth doing. You are +nothing to me in future, and the past side of the story may as well remain +untold. I have lost all through you, but I have not complained. Your blunders +and misfortunes may have been a sorrow to you, but they have been a wrong to +me. All persons of refinement have been scared away from me since I sank into +the mire of marriage. Is this your cherishing—to put me into a hut like +this, and keep me like the wife of a hind? You deceived me—not by words, +but by appearances, which are less seen through than words. But the place will +serve as well as any other—as somewhere to pass from—into my +grave.” Her words were smothered in her throat, and her head drooped +down. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what you mean by that. Am I the cause of your +sin?” (Eustacia made a trembling motion towards him.) “What, you +can begin to shed tears and offer me your hand? Good God! can you? No, not I. +I’ll not commit the fault of taking that.” (The hand she had +offered dropped nervelessly, but the tears continued flowing.) “Well, +yes, I’ll take it, if only for the sake of my own foolish kisses that +were wasted there before I knew what I cherished. How bewitched I was! How +could there be any good in a woman that everybody spoke ill of?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, O, O!” she cried, breaking down at last; and, shaking with sobs +which choked her, she sank upon her knees. “O, will you have done! O, you +are too relentless—there’s a limit to the cruelty of savages! I +have held out long—but you crush me down. I beg for mercy—I cannot +bear this any longer—it is inhuman to go further with this! If I +had—killed your—mother with my own hand—I should not deserve +such a scourging to the bone as this. O, O! God have mercy upon a miserable +woman!... You have beaten me in this game—I beg you to stay your hand in +pity!... I confess that I—wilfully did not undo the door the first time +she knocked—but—I should have unfastened it the second—if I +had not thought you had gone to do it yourself. When I found you had not I +opened it, but she was gone. That’s the extent of my crime—towards +<i>her</i>. Best natures commit bad faults sometimes, don’t they?—I +think they do. Now I will leave you—for ever and ever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell all, and I <i>will</i> pity you. Was the man in the house with you +Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell,” she said desperately through her sobbing. +“Don’t insist further—I cannot tell. I am going from this +house. We cannot both stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not go—I will go. You can stay here.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I will dress, and then I will go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where I came from, or <i>else</i>where.” +</p> + +<p> +She hastily dressed herself, Yeobright moodily walking up and down the room the +whole of the time. At last all her things were on. Her little hands quivered so +violently as she held them to her chin to fasten her bonnet that she could not +tie the strings, and after a few moments she relinquished the attempt. Seeing +this he moved forward and said, “Let me tie them.” +</p> + +<p> +She assented in silence, and lifted her chin. For once at least in her life she +was totally oblivious of the charm of her attitude. But he was not, and he +turned his eyes aside, that he might not be tempted to softness. +</p> + +<p> +The strings were tied; she turned from him. “Do you still prefer going +away yourself to my leaving you?” he inquired again. +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well—let it be. And when you will confess to the man I may +pity you.” +</p> + +<p> +She flung her shawl about her and went downstairs, leaving him standing in the +room. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia had not long been gone when there came a knock at the door of the +bedroom; and Yeobright said, “Well?” +</p> + +<p> +It was the servant; and she replied, “Somebody from Mrs. Wildeve’s +have called to tell ’ee that the mis’ess and the baby are getting +on wonderful well, and the baby’s name is to be Eustacia +Clementine.” And the girl retired. +</p> + +<p> +“What a mockery!” said Clym. “This unhappy marriage of mine +to be perpetuated in that child’s name!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>IV.<br /> +The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One</h2> + +<p> +Eustacia’s journey was at first as vague in direction as that of +thistledown on the wind. She did not know what to do. She wished it had been +night instead of morning, that she might at least have borne her misery without +the possibility of being seen. Tracing mile after mile along between the dying +ferns and the wet white spiders’ webs, she at length turned her steps +towards her grandfather’s house. She found the front door closed and +locked. Mechanically she went round to the end where the stable was, and on +looking in at the stable door she saw Charley standing within. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Vye is not at home?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’am,” said the lad in a flutter of feeling; +“he’s gone to Weatherbury, and won’t be home till night. And +the servant is gone home for a holiday. So the house is locked up.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia’s face was not visible to Charley as she stood at the doorway, +her back being to the sky, and the stable but indifferently lighted; but the +wildness of her manner arrested his attention. She turned and walked away +across the enclosure to the gate, and was hidden by the bank. +</p> + +<p> +When she had disappeared Charley, with misgiving in his eyes, slowly came from +the stable door, and going to another point in the bank he looked over. +Eustacia was leaning against it on the outside, her face covered with her +hands, and her head pressing the dewy heather which bearded the bank’s +outer side. She appeared to be utterly indifferent to the circumstance that her +bonnet, hair, and garments were becoming wet and disarranged by the moisture of +her cold, harsh pillow. Clearly something was wrong. +</p> + +<p> +Charley had always regarded Eustacia as Eustacia had regarded Clym when she +first beheld him—as a romantic and sweet vision, scarcely incarnate. He +had been so shut off from her by the dignity of her look and the pride of her +speech, except at that one blissful interval when he was allowed to hold her +hand, that he had hardly deemed her a woman, wingless and earthly, subject to +household conditions and domestic jars. The inner details of her life he had +only conjectured. She had been a lovely wonder, predestined to an orbit in +which the whole of his own was but a point; and this sight of her leaning like +a helpless, despairing creature against a wild wet bank filled him with an +amazed horror. He could no longer remain where he was. Leaping over, he came +up, touched her with his finger, and said tenderly, “You are poorly, +ma’am. What can I do?” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia started up, and said, “Ah, Charley—you have followed me. +You did not think when I left home in the summer that I should come back like +this!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not, dear ma’am. Can I help you now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid not. I wish I could get into the house. I feel +giddy—that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lean on my arm, ma’am, till we get to the porch, and I will try to +open the door.” +</p> + +<p> +He supported her to the porch, and there depositing her on a seat hastened to +the back, climbed to a window by the help of a ladder, and descending inside +opened the door. Next he assisted her into the room, where there was an +old-fashioned horsehair settee as large as a donkey wagon. She lay down here, +and Charley covered her with a cloak he found in the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I get you something to eat and drink?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Charley. But I suppose there is no fire?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can light it, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +He vanished, and she heard a splitting of wood and a blowing of bellows; and +presently he returned, saying, “I have lighted a fire in the kitchen, and +now I’ll light one here.” +</p> + +<p> +He lit the fire, Eustacia dreamily observing him from her couch. When it was +blazing up he said, “Shall I wheel you round in front of it, ma’am, +as the morning is chilly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go and bring the victuals now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, do,” she murmured languidly. +</p> + +<p> +When he had gone, and the dull sounds occasionally reached her ears of his +movements in the kitchen, she forgot where she was, and had for a moment to +consider by an effort what the sounds meant. After an interval which seemed +short to her whose thoughts were elsewhere, he came in with a tray on which +steamed tea and toast, though it was nearly lunch-time. +</p> + +<p> +“Place it on the table,” she said. “I shall be ready +soon.” +</p> + +<p> +He did so, and retired to the door; when, however, he perceived that she did +not move he came back a few steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me hold it to you, if you don’t wish to get up,” said +Charley. He brought the tray to the front of the couch, where he knelt down, +adding, “I will hold it for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia sat up and poured out a cup of tea. “You are very kind to me, +Charley,” she murmured as she sipped. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I ought to be,” said he diffidently, taking great trouble +not to rest his eyes upon her, though this was their only natural position, +Eustacia being immediately before him. “You have been kind to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How have I?” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“You let me hold your hand when you were a maiden at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so I did. Why did I do that? My mind is lost—it had to do with +the mumming, had it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you wanted to go in my place.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember. I do indeed remember—too well!” +</p> + +<p> +She again became utterly downcast; and Charley, seeing that she was not going +to eat or drink any more, took away the tray. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards he occasionally came in to see if the fire was burning, to ask her +if she wanted anything, to tell her that the wind had shifted from south to +west, to ask her if she would like him to gather her some blackberries; to all +which inquiries she replied in the negative or with indifference. +</p> + +<p> +She remained on the settee some time longer, when she aroused herself and went +upstairs. The room in which she had formerly slept still remained much as she +had left it, and the recollection that this forced upon her of her own greatly +changed and infinitely worsened situation again set on her face the +undetermined and formless misery which it had worn on her first arrival. She +peeped into her grandfather’s room, through which the fresh autumn air +was blowing from the open window. Her eye was arrested by what was a familiar +sight enough, though it broke upon her now with a new significance. +</p> + +<p> +It was a brace of pistols, hanging near the head of her grandfather’s +bed, which he always kept there loaded, as a precaution against possible +burglars, the house being very lonely. Eustacia regarded them long, as if they +were the page of a book in which she read a new and a strange matter. Quickly, +like one afraid of herself, she returned downstairs and stood in deep thought. +</p> + +<p> +“If I could only do it!” she said. “It would be doing much +good to myself and all connected with me, and no harm to a single one.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea seemed to gather force within her, and she remained in a fixed +attitude nearly ten minutes, when a certain finality was expressed in her gaze, +and no longer the blankness of indecision. +</p> + +<p> +She turned and went up the second time—softly and stealthily +now—and entered her grandfather’s room, her eyes at once seeking +the head of the bed. The pistols were gone. +</p> + +<p> +The instant quashing of her purpose by their absence affected her brain as a +sudden vacuum affects the body—she nearly fainted. Who had done this? +There was only one person on the premises besides herself. Eustacia +involuntarily turned to the open window which overlooked the garden as far as +the bank that bounded it. On the summit of the latter stood Charley, +sufficiently elevated by its height to see into the room. His gaze was directed +eagerly and solicitously upon her. +</p> + +<p> +She went downstairs to the door and beckoned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“You have taken them away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw you looking at them too long.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has that to do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been heart-broken all the morning, as if you did not want to +live.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And I could not bear to leave them in your way. There was meaning in +your look at them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Locked up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the stable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give them to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“You refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do. I care too much for you to give ’em up.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned aside, her face for the first time softening from the stony +immobility of the earlier day, and the corners of her mouth resuming something +of that delicacy of cut which was always lost in her moments of despair. At +last she confronted him again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not die if I wish?” she said tremulously. “I +have made a bad bargain with life, and I am weary of it—weary. And now +you have hindered my escape. O, why did you, Charley! What makes death painful +except the thought of others’ grief?—and that is absent in my case, +for not a sigh would follow me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it is trouble that has done this! I wish in my very soul that he who +brought it about might die and rot, even if ’tis transportation to say +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Charley, no more of that. What do you mean to do about this you have +seen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep it close as night, if you promise not to think of it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not fear. The moment has passed. I promise.” She then +went away, entered the house, and lay down. +</p> + +<p> +Later in the afternoon her grandfather returned. He was about to question her +categorically, but on looking at her he withheld his words. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is too bad to talk of,” she slowly returned in answer to +his glance. “Can my old room be got ready for me tonight, Grandfather? I +shall want to occupy it again.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not ask what it all meant, or why she had left her husband, but ordered +the room to be prepared. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>V.<br /> +An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated</h2> + +<p> +Charley’s attentions to his former mistress were unbounded. The only +solace to his own trouble lay in his attempts to relieve hers. Hour after hour +he considered her wants; he thought of her presence there with a sort of +gratitude, and, while uttering imprecations on the cause of her unhappiness, in +some measure blessed the result. Perhaps she would always remain there, he +thought, and then he would be as happy as he had been before. His dread was +lest she should think fit to return to Alderworth, and in that dread his eyes, +with all the inquisitiveness of affection, frequently sought her face when she +was not observing him, as he would have watched the head of a stockdove to +learn if it contemplated flight. Having once really succoured her, and possibly +preserved her from the rashest of acts, he mentally assumed in addition a +guardian’s responsibility for her welfare. +</p> + +<p> +For this reason he busily endeavoured to provide her with pleasant +distractions, bringing home curious objects which he found in the heath, such +as white trumpet-shaped mosses, redheaded lichens, stone arrowheads used by the +old tribes on Egdon, and faceted crystals from the hollows of flints. These he +deposited on the premises in such positions that she should see them as if by +accident. +</p> + +<p> +A week passed, Eustacia never going out of the house. Then she walked into the +enclosed plot and looked through her grandfather’s spyglass, as she had +been in the habit of doing before her marriage. One day she saw, at a place +where the highroad crossed the distant valley, a heavily laden wagon passing +along. It was piled with household furniture. She looked again and again, and +recognized it to be her own. In the evening her grandfather came indoors with a +rumour that Yeobright had removed that day from Alderworth to the old house at +Blooms-End. +</p> + +<p> +On another occasion when reconnoitring thus she beheld two female figures +walking in the vale. The day was fine and clear; and the persons not being more +than half a mile off she could see their every detail with the telescope. The +woman walking in front carried a white bundle in her arms, from one end of +which hung a long appendage of drapery; and when the walkers turned, so that +the sun fell more directly upon them, Eustacia could see that the object was a +baby. She called Charley, and asked him if he knew who they were, though she +well guessed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Wildeve and the nurse-girl,” said Charley. +</p> + +<p> +“The nurse is carrying the baby?” said Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ’tis Mrs. Wildeve carrying that,” he answered, +“and the nurse walks behind carrying nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +The lad was in good spirits that day, for the Fifth of November had again come +round, and he was planning yet another scheme to divert her from her too +absorbing thoughts. For two successive years his mistress had seemed to take +pleasure in lighting a bonfire on the bank overlooking the valley; but this +year she had apparently quite forgotten the day and the customary deed. He was +careful not to remind her, and went on with his secret preparations for a +cheerful surprise, the more zealously that he had been absent last time and +unable to assist. At every vacant minute he hastened to gather furze-stumps, +thorn-tree roots, and other solid materials from the adjacent slopes, hiding +them from cursory view. +</p> + +<p> +The evening came, and Eustacia was still seemingly unconscious of the +anniversary. She had gone indoors after her survey through the glass, and had +not been visible since. As soon as it was quite dark Charley began to build the +bonfire, choosing precisely that spot on the bank which Eustacia had chosen at +previous times. +</p> + +<p> +When all the surrounding bonfires had burst into existence Charley kindled his, +and arranged its fuel so that it should not require tending for some time. He +then went back to the house, and lingered round the door and windows till she +should by some means or other learn of his achievement and come out to witness +it. But the shutters were closed, the door remained shut, and no heed whatever +seemed to be taken of his performance. Not liking to call her he went back and +replenished the fire, continuing to do this for more than half an hour. It was +not till his stock of fuel had greatly diminished that he went to the back door +and sent in to beg that Mrs. Yeobright would open the window-shutters and see +the sight outside. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia, who had been sitting listlessly in the parlour, started up at the +intelligence and flung open the shutters. Facing her on the bank blazed the +fire, which at once sent a ruddy glare into the room where she was, and +overpowered the candles. +</p> + +<p> +“Well done, Charley!” said Captain Vye from the chimney-corner. +“But I hope it is not my wood that he’s burning.... Ah, it was this +time last year that I met with that man Venn, bringing home Thomasin +Yeobright—to be sure it was! Well, who would have thought that +girl’s troubles would have ended so well? What a snipe you were in that +matter, Eustacia! Has your husband written to you yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Eustacia, looking vaguely through the window at the +fire, which just then so much engaged her mind that she did not resent her +grandfather’s blunt opinion. She could see Charley’s form on the +bank, shovelling and stirring the fire; and there flashed upon her imagination +some other form which that fire might call up. +</p> + +<p> +She left the room, put on her garden bonnet and cloak, and went out. Reaching +the bank, she looked over with a wild curiosity and misgiving, when Charley +said to her, with a pleased sense of himself, “I made it o’ purpose +for you, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she said hastily. “But I wish you to put it out +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will soon burn down,” said Charley, rather disappointed. +“Is it not a pity to knock it out?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she musingly answered. +</p> + +<p> +They stood in silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames, till +Charley, perceiving that she did not want to talk to him, moved reluctantly +away. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia remained within the bank looking at the fire, intending to go indoors, +yet lingering still. Had she not by her situation been inclined to hold in +indifference all things honoured of the gods and of men she would probably have +come away. But her state was so hopeless that she could play with it. To have +lost is less disturbing than to wonder if we may possibly have won; and +Eustacia could now, like other people at such a stage, take a standing-point +outside herself, observe herself as a disinterested spectator, and think what a +sport for Heaven this woman Eustacia was. +</p> + +<p> +While she stood she heard a sound. It was the splash of a stone in the pond. +</p> + +<p> +Had Eustacia received the stone full in the bosom her heart could not have +given a more decided thump. She had thought of the possibility of such a signal +in answer to that which had been unwittingly given by Charley; but she had not +expected it yet. How prompt Wildeve was! Yet how could he think her capable of +deliberately wishing to renew their assignations now? An impulse to leave the +spot, a desire to stay, struggled within her; and the desire held its own. More +than that it did not do, for she refrained even from ascending the bank and +looking over. She remained motionless, not disturbing a muscle of her face or +raising her eyes; for were she to turn up her face the fire on the bank would +shine upon it, and Wildeve might be looking down. +</p> + +<p> +There was a second splash into the pond. +</p> + +<p> +Why did he stay so long without advancing and looking over? Curiosity had its +way—she ascended one or two of the earth-steps in the bank and glanced +out. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve was before her. He had come forward after throwing the last pebble, and +the fire now shone into each of their faces from the bank stretching +breast-high between them. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not light it!” cried Eustacia quickly. “It was lit +without my knowledge. Don’t, don’t come over to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why have you been living here all these days without telling me? You +have left your home. I fear I am something to blame in this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not let in his mother; that’s how it is!” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not deserve what you have got, Eustacia; you are in great misery; +I see it in your eyes, your mouth, and all over you. My poor, poor girl!” +He stepped over the bank. “You are beyond everything unhappy!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; not exactly—” +</p> + +<p> +“It has been pushed too far—it is killing you—I do think +it!” +</p> + +<p> +Her usually quiet breathing had grown quicker with his words. +“I—I—” she began, and then burst into quivering sobs, +shaken to the very heart by the unexpected voice of pity—a sentiment +whose existence in relation to herself she had almost forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +This outbreak of weeping took Eustacia herself so much by surprise that she +could not leave off, and she turned aside from him in some shame, though +turning hid nothing from him. She sobbed on desperately; then the outpour +lessened, and she became quieter. Wildeve had resisted the impulse to clasp +her, and stood without speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not ashamed of me, who used never to be a crying animal?” +she asked in a weak whisper as she wiped her eyes. “Why didn’t you +go away? I wish you had not seen quite all that; it reveals too much by +half.” +</p> + +<p> +“You might have wished it, because it makes me as sad as you,” he +said with emotion and deference. “As for revealing—the word is +impossible between us two.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not send for you—don’t forget it, Damon; I am in pain, +but I did not send for you! As a wife, at least, I’ve been +straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind—I came. O, Eustacia, forgive me for the harm I have +done you in these two past years! I see more and more that I have been your +ruin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not you. This place I live in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, your generosity may naturally make you say that. But I am the +culprit. I should either have done more or nothing at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what way?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought never to have hunted you out, or, having done it, I ought to +have persisted in retaining you. But of course I have no right to talk of that +now. I will only ask this—can I do anything for you? Is there anything on +the face of the earth that a man can do to make you happier than you are at +present? If there is, I will do it. You may command me, Eustacia, to the limit +of my influence; and don’t forget that I am richer now. Surely something +can be done to save you from this! Such a rare plant in such a wild place it +grieves me to see. Do you want anything bought? Do you want to go anywhere? Do +you want to escape the place altogether? Only say it, and I’ll do +anything to put an end to those tears, which but for me would never have been +at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are each married to another person,” she said faintly; +“and assistance from you would have an evil +sound—after—after—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s no preventing slanderers from having their fill at +any time; but you need not be afraid. Whatever I may feel I promise you on my +word of honour never to speak to you about—or act upon—until you +say I may. I know my duty to Thomasin quite as well as I know my duty to you as +a woman unfairly treated. What shall I assist you in?” +</p> + +<p> +“In getting away from here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you wish to go to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a place in my mind. If you could help me as far as Budmouth I can +do all the rest. Steamers sail from there across the Channel, and so I can get +to Paris, where I want to be. Yes,” she pleaded earnestly, “help me +to get to Budmouth harbour without my grandfather’s or my husband’s +knowledge, and I can do all the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it be safe to leave you there alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. I know Budmouth well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I go with you? I am rich now.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Say yes, sweet!” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent still. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let me know when you wish to go. We shall be at our present house +till December; after that we remove to Casterbridge. Command me in anything +till that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will think of this,” she said hurriedly. “Whether I can +honestly make use of you as a friend, or must close with you as a +lover—that is what I must ask myself. If I wish to go and decide to +accept your company I will signal to you some evening at eight o’clock +punctually, and this will mean that you are to be ready with a horse and trap +at twelve o’clock the same night to drive me to Budmouth harbour in time +for the morning boat.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will look out every night at eight, and no signal shall escape +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now please go away. If I decide on this escape I can only meet you once +more unless—I cannot go without you. Go—I cannot bear it longer. +Go—go!” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve slowly went up the steps and descended into the darkness on the other +side; and as he walked he glanced back, till the bank blotted out her form from +his further view. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a>VI.<br /> +Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter</h2> + +<p> +Yeobright was at this time at Blooms-End, hoping that Eustacia would return to +him. The removal of furniture had been accomplished only that day, though Clym +had lived in the old house for more than a week. He had spent the time in +working about the premises, sweeping leaves from the garden paths, cutting dead +stalks from the flower beds, and nailing up creepers which had been displaced +by the autumn winds. He took no particular pleasure in these deeds, but they +formed a screen between himself and despair. Moreover, it had become a religion +with him to preserve in good condition all that had lapsed from his +mother’s hands to his own. +</p> + +<p> +During these operations he was constantly on the watch for Eustacia. That there +should be no mistake about her knowing where to find him he had ordered a +notice board to be affixed to the garden gate at Alderworth, signifying in +white letters whither he had removed. When a leaf floated to the earth he +turned his head, thinking it might be her foot-fall. A bird searching for worms +in the mould of the flower-beds sounded like her hand on the latch of the gate; +and at dusk, when soft, strange ventriloquisms came from holes in the ground, +hollow stalks, curled dead leaves, and other crannies wherein breezes, worms, +and insects can work their will, he fancied that they were Eustacia, standing +without and breathing wishes of reconciliation. +</p> + +<p> +Up to this hour he had persevered in his resolve not to invite her back. At the +same time the severity with which he had treated her lulled the sharpness of +his regret for his mother, and awoke some of his old solicitude for his +mother’s supplanter. Harsh feelings produce harsh usage, and this by +reaction quenches the sentiments that gave it birth. The more he reflected the +more he softened. But to look upon his wife as innocence in distress was +impossible, though he could ask himself whether he had given her quite time +enough—if he had not come a little too suddenly upon her on that sombre +morning. +</p> + +<p> +Now that the first flush of his anger had paled he was disinclined to ascribe +to her more than an indiscreet friendship with Wildeve, for there had not +appeared in her manner the signs of dishonour. And this once admitted, an +absolutely dark interpretation of her act towards his mother was no longer +forced upon him. +</p> + +<p> +On the evening of the fifth November his thoughts of Eustacia were intense. +Echoes from those past times when they had exchanged tender words all the day +long came like the diffused murmur of a seashore left miles behind. +“Surely,” he said, “she might have brought herself to +communicate with me before now, and confess honestly what Wildeve was to +her.” +</p> + +<p> +Instead of remaining at home that night he determined to go and see Thomasin +and her husband. If he found opportunity he would allude to the cause of the +separation between Eustacia and himself, keeping silence, however, on the fact +that there was a third person in his house when his mother was turned away. If +it proved that Wildeve was innocently there he would doubtless openly mention +it. If he were there with unjust intentions Wildeve, being a man of quick +feeling, might possibly say something to reveal the extent to which Eustacia +was compromised. +</p> + +<p> +But on reaching his cousin’s house he found that only Thomasin was at +home, Wildeve being at that time on his way towards the bonfire innocently lit +by Charley at Mistover. Thomasin then, as always, was glad to see Clym, and +took him to inspect the sleeping baby, carefully screening the candlelight from +the infant’s eyes with her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Tamsin, have you heard that Eustacia is not with me now?” he said +when they had sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Thomasin, alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +“And not that I have left Alderworth?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I never hear tidings from Alderworth unless you bring them. What is +the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Clym in a disturbed voice related to her his visit to Susan Nunsuch’s +boy, the revelation he had made, and what had resulted from his charging +Eustacia with having wilfully and heartlessly done the deed. He suppressed all +mention of Wildeve’s presence with her. +</p> + +<p> +“All this, and I not knowing it!” murmured Thomasin in an awestruck +tone, “Terrible! What could have made her—O, Eustacia! And when you +found it out you went in hot haste to her? Were you too cruel?—or is she +really so wicked as she seems?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can a man be too cruel to his mother’s enemy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can fancy so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then—I’ll admit that he can. But now what is to +be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Make it up again—if a quarrel so deadly can ever be made up. I +almost wish you had not told me. But do try to be reconciled. There are ways, +after all, if you both wish to.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know that we do both wish to make it up,” said Clym. +“If she had wished it, would she not have sent to me by this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to wish to, and yet you have not sent to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“True; but I have been tossed to and fro in doubt if I ought, after such +strong provocation. To see me now, Thomasin, gives you no idea of what I have +been; of what depths I have descended to in these few last days. O, it was a +bitter shame to shut out my mother like that! Can I ever forget it, or even +agree to see her again?” +</p> + +<p> +“She might not have known that anything serious would come of it, and +perhaps she did not mean to keep Aunt out altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +“She says herself that she did not. But the fact remains that keep her +out she did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Believe her sorry, and send for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“How if she will not come?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will prove her guilty, by showing that it is her habit to nourish +enmity. But I do not think that for a moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will do this. I will wait for a day or two longer—not longer +than two days certainly; and if she does not send to me in that time I will +indeed send to her. I thought to have seen Wildeve here tonight. Is he from +home?” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin blushed a little. “No,” she said. “He is merely gone +out for a walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t he take you with him? The evening is fine. You want +fresh air as well as he.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t care for going anywhere; besides, there is +baby.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. Well, I have been thinking whether I should not consult your +husband about this as well as you,” said Clym steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy I would not,” she quickly answered. “It can do no +good.” +</p> + +<p> +Her cousin looked her in the face. No doubt Thomasin was ignorant that her +husband had any share in the events of that tragic afternoon; but her +countenance seemed to signify that she concealed some suspicion or thought of +the reputed tender relations between Wildeve and Eustacia in days gone by. +</p> + +<p> +Clym, however, could make nothing of it, and he rose to depart, more in doubt +than when he came. +</p> + +<p> +“You will write to her in a day or two?” said the young woman +earnestly. “I do so hope the wretched separation may come to an +end.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” said Clym; “I don’t rejoice in my present +state at all.” +</p> + +<p> +And he left her and climbed over the hill to Blooms-End. Before going to bed he +sat down and wrote the following letter:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +M<small>Y DEAR</small> E<small>USTACIA</small>,—I must obey my heart +without consulting my reason too closely. Will you come back to me? Do so, and +the past shall never be mentioned. I was too severe; but O, Eustacia, the +provocation! You don’t know, you never will know, what those words of +anger cost me which you drew down upon yourself. All that an honest man can +promise you I promise now, which is that from me you shall never suffer +anything on this score again. After all the vows we have made, Eustacia, I +think we had better pass the remainder of our lives in trying to keep them. +Come to me, then, even if you reproach me. I have thought of your sufferings +that morning on which I parted from you; I know they were genuine, and they are +as much as you ought to bear. Our love must still continue. Such hearts as ours +would never have been given us but to be concerned with each other. I could not +ask you back at first, Eustacia, for I was unable to persuade myself that he +who was with you was not there as a lover. But if you will come and explain +distracting appearances I do not question that you can show your honesty to me. +Why have you not come before? Do you think I will not listen to you? Surely +not, when you remember the kisses and vows we exchanged under the summer moon. +Return then, and you shall be warmly welcomed. I can no longer think of you to +your prejudice—I am but too much absorbed in justifying you.—Your +husband as ever, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +C<small>LYM</small>. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said, as he laid it in his desk, “that’s a +good thing done. If she does not come before tomorrow night I will send it to +her.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, at the house he had just left Thomasin sat sighing uneasily. +Fidelity to her husband had that evening induced her to conceal all suspicion +that Wildeve’s interest in Eustacia had not ended with his marriage. But +she knew nothing positive; and though Clym was her well-beloved cousin there +was one nearer to her still. +</p> + +<p> +When, a little later, Wildeve returned from his walk to Mistover, Thomasin +said, “Damon, where have you been? I was getting quite frightened, and +thought you had fallen into the river. I dislike being in the house by +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Frightened?” he said, touching her cheek as if she were some +domestic animal. “Why, I thought nothing could frighten you. It is that +you are getting proud, I am sure, and don’t like living here since we +have risen above our business. Well, it is a tedious matter, this getting a new +house; but I couldn’t have set about it sooner, unless our ten thousand +pounds had been a hundred thousand, when we could have afforded to despise +caution.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—I don’t mind waiting—I would rather stay here +twelve months longer than run any risk with baby. But I don’t like your +vanishing so in the evenings. There’s something on your mind—I know +there is, Damon. You go about so gloomily, and look at the heath as if it were +somebody’s gaol instead of a nice wild place to walk in.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked towards her with pitying surprise. “What, do you like Egdon +Heath?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I like what I was born near to; I admire its grim old face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, my dear. You don’t know what you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I do. There’s only one thing unpleasant about +Egdon.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never take me with you when you walk there. Why do you wander so +much in it yourself if you so dislike it?” +</p> + +<p> +The inquiry, though a simple one, was plainly disconcerting, and he sat down +before replying. “I don’t think you often see me there. Give an +instance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” she answered triumphantly. “When you went out this +evening I thought that as baby was asleep I would see where you were going to +so mysteriously without telling me. So I ran out and followed behind you. You +stopped at the place where the road forks, looked round at the bonfires, and +then said, ‘Damn it, I’ll go!’ And you went quickly up the +left-hand road. Then I stood and watched you.” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve frowned, afterwards saying, with a forced smile, “Well, what +wonderful discovery did you make?” +</p> + +<p> +“There—now you are angry, and we won’t talk of this any +more.” She went across to him, sat on a footstool, and looked up in his +face. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” he said, “that’s how you always back out. +We will go on with it now we have begun. What did you next see? I particularly +want to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be like that, Damon!” she murmured. “I +didn’t see anything. You vanished out of sight, and then I looked round +at the bonfires and came in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps this is not the only time you have dogged my steps. Are you +trying to find out something bad about me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all! I have never done such a thing before, and I shouldn’t +have done it now if words had not sometimes been dropped about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>do</i> you mean?” he impatiently asked. +</p> + +<p> +“They say—they say you used to go to Alderworth in the evenings, +and it puts into my mind what I have heard about—” +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve turned angrily and stood up in front of her. “Now,” he +said, flourishing his hand in the air, “just out with it, madam! I demand +to know what remarks you have heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I heard that you used to be very fond of Eustacia—nothing +more than that, though dropped in a bit-by-bit way. You ought not to be +angry!” +</p> + +<p> +He observed that her eyes were brimming with tears. “Well,” he +said, “there is nothing new in that, and of course I don’t mean to +be rough towards you, so you need not cry. Now, don’t let us speak of the +subject any more.” +</p> + +<p> +And no more was said, Thomasin being glad enough of a reason for not mentioning +Clym’s visit to her that evening, and his story. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a>VII.<br /> +The Night of the Sixth of November</h2> + +<p> +Having resolved on flight Eustacia at times seemed anxious that something +should happen to thwart her own intention. The only event that could really +change her position was the appearance of Clym. The glory which had encircled +him as her lover was departed now; yet some good simple quality of his would +occasionally return to her memory and stir a momentary throb of hope that he +would again present himself before her. But calmly considered it was not likely +that such a severance as now existed would ever close up—she would have +to live on as a painful object, isolated, and out of place. She had used to +think of the heath alone as an uncongenial spot to be in; she felt it now of +the whole world. +</p> + +<p> +Towards evening on the sixth her determination to go away again revived. About +four o’clock she packed up anew the few small articles she had brought in +her flight from Alderworth, and also some belonging to her which had been left +here; the whole formed a bundle not too large to be carried in her hand for a +distance of a mile or two. The scene without grew darker; mud-coloured clouds +bellied downwards from the sky like vast hammocks slung across it, and with the +increase of night a stormy wind arose; but as yet there was no rain. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia could not rest indoors, having nothing more to do, and she wandered to +and fro on the hill, not far from the house she was soon to leave. In these +desultory ramblings she passed the cottage of Susan Nunsuch, a little lower +down than her grandfather’s. The door was ajar, and a riband of bright +firelight fell over the ground without. As Eustacia crossed the firebeams she +appeared for an instant as distinct as a figure in a phantasmagoria—a +creature of light surrounded by an area of darkness; the moment passed, and she +was absorbed in night again. +</p> + +<p> +A woman who was sitting inside the cottage had seen and recognized her in that +momentary irradiation. This was Susan herself, occupied in preparing a posset +for her little boy, who, often ailing, was now seriously unwell. Susan dropped +the spoon, shook her fist at the vanished figure, and then proceeded with her +work in a musing, absent way. +</p> + +<p> +At eight o’clock, the hour at which Eustacia had promised to signal +Wildeve if ever she signalled at all, she looked around the premises to learn +if the coast was clear, went to the furze-rick, and pulled thence a +long-stemmed bough of that fuel. This she carried to the corner of the bank, +and, glancing behind to see if the shutters were all closed, she struck a +light, and kindled the furze. When it was thoroughly ablaze Eustacia took it by +the stem and waved it in the air above her head till it had burned itself out. +</p> + +<p> +She was gratified, if gratification were possible to such a mood, by seeing a +similar light in the vicinity of Wildeve’s residence a minute or two +later. Having agreed to keep watch at this hour every night, in case she should +require assistance, this promptness proved how strictly he had held to his +word. Four hours after the present time, that is, at midnight, he was to be +ready to drive her to Budmouth, as prearranged. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia returned to the house. Supper having been got over she retired early, +and sat in her bedroom waiting for the time to go by. The night being dark and +threatening, Captain Vye had not strolled out to gossip in any cottage or to +call at the inn, as was sometimes his custom on these long autumn nights; and +he sat sipping grog alone downstairs. About ten o’clock there was a knock +at the door. When the servant opened it the rays of the candle fell upon the +form of Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“I was a-forced to go to Lower Mistover tonight,” he said, +“and Mr. Yeobright asked me to leave this here on my way; but, faith, I +put it in the lining of my hat, and thought no more about it till I got back +and was hasping my gate before going to bed. So I have run back with it at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +He handed in a letter and went his way. The girl brought it to the captain, who +found that it was directed to Eustacia. He turned it over and over, and fancied +that the writing was her husband’s, though he could not be sure. However, +he decided to let her have it at once if possible, and took it upstairs for +that purpose; but on reaching the door of her room and looking in at the +keyhole he found there was no light within, the fact being that Eustacia, +without undressing, had flung herself upon the bed, to rest and gather a little +strength for her coming journey. Her grandfather concluded from what he saw +that he ought not to disturb her; and descending again to the parlour he placed +the letter on the mantelpiece to give it to her in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +At eleven o’clock he went to bed himself, smoked for some time in his +bedroom, put out his light at half-past eleven, and then, as was his invariable +custom, pulled up the blind before getting into bed, that he might see which +way the wind blew on opening his eyes in the morning, his bedroom window +commanding a view of the flagstaff and vane. Just as he had lain down he was +surprised to observe the white pole of the staff flash into existence like a +streak of phosphorus drawn downwards across the shade of night without. Only +one explanation met this—a light had been suddenly thrown upon the pole +from the direction of the house. As everybody had retired to rest the old man +felt it necessary to get out of bed, open the window softly, and look to the +right and left. Eustacia’s bedroom was lighted up, and it was the shine +from her window which had lighted the pole. Wondering what had aroused her, he +remained undecided at the window, and was thinking of fetching the letter to +slip it under her door, when he heard a slight brushing of garments on the +partition dividing his room from the passage. +</p> + +<p> +The captain concluded that Eustacia, feeling wakeful, had gone for a book, and +would have dismissed the matter as unimportant if he had not also heard her +distinctly weeping as she passed. +</p> + +<p> +“She is thinking of that husband of hers,” he said to himself. +“Ah, the silly goose! she had no business to marry him. I wonder if that +letter is really his?” +</p> + +<p> +He arose, threw his boat-cloak round him, opened the door, and said, +“Eustacia!” There was no answer. “Eustacia!” he +repeated louder, “there is a letter on the mantelpiece for you.” +</p> + +<p> +But no response was made to this statement save an imaginary one from the wind, +which seemed to gnaw at the corners of the house, and the stroke of a few drops +of rain upon the windows. +</p> + +<p> +He went on to the landing, and stood waiting nearly five minutes. Still she did +not return. He went back for a light, and prepared to follow her; but first he +looked into her bedroom. There, on the outside of the quilt, was the impression +of her form, showing that the bed had not been opened; and, what was more +significant, she had not taken her candlestick downstairs. He was now +thoroughly alarmed; and hastily putting on his clothes he descended to the +front door, which he himself had bolted and locked. It was now unfastened. +There was no longer any doubt that Eustacia had left the house at this midnight +hour; and whither could she have gone? To follow her was almost impossible. Had +the dwelling stood in an ordinary road, two persons setting out, one in each +direction, might have made sure of overtaking her; but it was a hopeless task +to seek for anybody on a heath in the dark, the practicable directions for +flight across it from any point being as numerous as the meridians radiating +from the pole. Perplexed what to do, he looked into the parlour, and was vexed +to find that the letter still lay there untouched. +</p> + +<p> +At half-past eleven, finding that the house was silent, Eustacia had lighted +her candle, put on some warm outer wrappings, taken her bag in her hand, and, +extinguishing the light again, descended the staircase. When she got into the +outer air she found that it had begun to rain, and as she stood pausing at the +door it increased, threatening to come on heavily. But having committed herself +to this line of action there was no retreating for bad weather. Even the +receipt of Clym’s letter would not have stopped her now. The gloom of the +night was funereal; all nature seemed clothed in crape. The spiky points of the +fir trees behind the house rose into the sky like the turrets and pinnacles of +an abbey. Nothing below the horizon was visible save a light which was still +burning in the cottage of Susan Nunsuch. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia opened her umbrella and went out from the enclosure by the steps over +the bank, after which she was beyond all danger of being perceived. Skirting +the pool, she followed the path towards Rainbarrow, occasionally stumbling over +twisted furze roots, tufts of rushes, or oozing lumps of fleshy fungi, which at +this season lay scattered about the heath like the rotten liver and lungs of +some colossal animal. The moon and stars were closed up by cloud and rain to +the degree of extinction. It was a night which led the traveller’s +thoughts instinctively to dwell on nocturnal scenes of disaster in the +chronicles of the world, on all that is terrible and dark in history and +legend—the last plague of Egypt, the destruction of Sennacherib’s +host, the agony in Gethsemane. +</p> + +<p> +Eustacia at length reached Rainbarrow, and stood still there to think. Never +was harmony more perfect than that between the chaos of her mind and the chaos +of the world without. A sudden recollection had flashed on her this +moment—she had not money enough for undertaking a long journey. Amid the +fluctuating sentiments of the day her unpractical mind had not dwelt on the +necessity of being well-provided, and now that she thoroughly realized the +conditions she sighed bitterly and ceased to stand erect, gradually crouching +down under the umbrella as if she were drawn into the Barrow by a hand from +beneath. Could it be that she was to remain a captive still? Money—she +had never felt its value before. Even to efface herself from the country means +were required. To ask Wildeve for pecuniary aid without allowing him to +accompany her was impossible to a woman with a shadow of pride left in her; to +fly as his mistress—and she knew that he loved her—was of the +nature of humiliation. +</p> + +<p> +Anyone who had stood by now would have pitied her, not so much on account of +her exposure to weather, and isolation from all of humanity except the +mouldered remains inside the tumulus; but for that other form of misery which +was denoted by the slightly rocking movement that her feelings imparted to her +person. Extreme unhappiness weighed visibly upon her. Between the drippings of +the rain from her umbrella to her mantle, from her mantle to the heather, from +the heather to the earth, very similar sounds could be heard coming from her +lips; and the tearfulness of the outer scene was repeated upon her face. The +wings of her soul were broken by the cruel obstructiveness of all about her; +and even had she seen herself in a promising way of getting to Budmouth, +entering a steamer, and sailing to some opposite port, she would have been but +little more buoyant, so fearfully malignant were other things. She uttered +words aloud. When a woman in such a situation, neither old, deaf, crazed, nor +whimsical, takes upon herself to sob and soliloquize aloud there is something +grievous the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I go, can I go?” she moaned. “He’s not +<i>great</i> enough for me to give myself to—he does not suffice for my +desire!... If he had been a Saul or a Bonaparte—ah! But to break my +marriage vow for him—it is too poor a luxury!... And I have no money to +go alone! And if I could, what comfort to me? I must drag on next year, as I +have dragged on this year, and the year after that as before. How I have tried +and tried to be a splendid woman, and how destiny has been against me!... I do +not deserve my lot!” she cried in a frenzy of bitter revolt. “O, +the cruelty of putting me into this ill-conceived world! I was capable of much; +but I have been injured and blighted and crushed by things beyond my control! +O, how hard it is of Heaven to devise such tortures for me, who have done no +harm to Heaven at all!” +</p> + +<p> +The distant light which Eustacia had cursorily observed in leaving the house +came, as she had divined, from the cottage window of Susan Nunsuch. What +Eustacia did not divine was the occupation of the woman within at that moment. +Susan’s sight of her passing figure earlier in the evening, not five +minutes after the sick boy’s exclamation, “Mother, I do feel so +bad!” persuaded the matron that an evil influence was certainly exercised +by Eustacia’s propinquity. +</p> + +<p> +On this account Susan did not go to bed as soon as the evening’s work was +over, as she would have done at ordinary times. To counteract the malign spell +which she imagined poor Eustacia to be working, the boy’s mother busied +herself with a ghastly invention of superstition, calculated to bring +powerlessness, atrophy, and annihilation on any human being against whom it was +directed. It was a practice well known on Egdon at that date, and one that is +not quite extinct at the present day. +</p> + +<p> +She passed with her candle into an inner room, where, among other utensils, +were two large brown pans, containing together perhaps a hundredweight of +liquid honey, the produce of the bees during the foregoing summer. On a shelf +over the pans was a smooth and solid yellow mass of a hemispherical form, +consisting of beeswax from the same take of honey. Susan took down the lump, +and cutting off several thin slices, heaped them in an iron ladle, with which +she returned to the living-room, and placed the vessel in the hot ashes of the +fireplace. As soon as the wax had softened to the plasticity of dough she +kneaded the pieces together. And now her face became more intent. She began +moulding the wax; and it was evident from her manner of manipulation that she +was endeavouring to give it some preconceived form. The form was human. +</p> + +<p> +By warming and kneading, cutting and twisting, dismembering and re-joining the +incipient image she had in about a quarter of an hour produced a shape which +tolerably well resembled a woman, and was about six inches high. She laid it on +the table to get cold and hard. Meanwhile she took the candle and went upstairs +to where the little boy was lying. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you notice, my dear, what Mrs. Eustacia wore this afternoon besides +the dark dress?” +</p> + +<p> +“A red ribbon round her neck.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything else?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—except sandal-shoes.” +</p> + +<p> +“A red ribbon and sandal-shoes,” she said to herself. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Nunsuch went and searched till she found a fragment of the narrowest red +ribbon, which she took downstairs and tied round the neck of the image. Then +fetching ink and a quilt from the rickety bureau by the window, she blackened +the feet of the image to the extent presumably covered by shoes; and on the +instep of each foot marked cross-lines in the shape taken by the sandalstrings +of those days. Finally she tied a bit of black thread round the upper part of +the head, in faint resemblance to a snood worn for confining the hair. +</p> + +<p> +Susan held the object at arm’s length and contemplated it with a +satisfaction in which there was no smile. To anybody acquainted with the +inhabitants of Egdon Heath the image would have suggested Eustacia Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +From her workbasket in the window-seat the woman took a paper of pins, of the +old long and yellow sort, whose heads were disposed to come off at their first +usage. These she began to thrust into the image in all directions, with +apparently excruciating energy. Probably as many as fifty were thus inserted, +some into the head of the wax model, some into the shoulders, some into the +trunk, some upwards through the soles of the feet, till the figure was +completely permeated with pins. +</p> + +<p> +She turned to the fire. It had been of turf; and though the high heap of ashes +which turf fires produce was somewhat dark and dead on the outside, upon raking +it abroad with the shovel the inside of the mass showed a glow of red heat. She +took a few pieces of fresh turf from the chimney-corner and built them together +over the glow, upon which the fire brightened. Seizing with the tongs the image +that she had made of Eustacia, she held it in the heat, and watched it as it +began to waste slowly away. And while she stood thus engaged there came from +between her lips a murmur of words. +</p> + +<p> +It was a strange jargon—the Lord’s Prayer repeated +backwards—the incantation usual in proceedings for obtaining unhallowed +assistance against an enemy. Susan uttered the lugubrious discourse three times +slowly, and when it was completed the image had considerably diminished. As the +wax dropped into the fire a long flame arose from the spot, and curling its +tongue round the figure ate still further into its substance. A pin +occasionally dropped with the wax, and the embers heated it red as it lay. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a>VIII.<br /> +Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers</h2> + +<p> +While the effigy of Eustacia was melting to nothing, and the fair woman herself +was standing on Rainbarrow, her soul in an abyss of desolation seldom plumbed +by one so young, Yeobright sat lonely at Blooms-End. He had fulfilled his word +to Thomasin by sending off Fairway with the letter to his wife, and now waited +with increased impatience for some sound or signal of her return. Were Eustacia +still at Mistover the very least he expected was that she would send him back a +reply tonight by the same hand; though, to leave all to her inclination, he had +cautioned Fairway not to ask for an answer. If one were handed to him he was to +bring it immediately; if not, he was to go straight home without troubling to +come round to Blooms-End again that night. +</p> + +<p> +But secretly Clym had a more pleasing hope. Eustacia might possibly decline to +use her pen—it was rather her way to work silently—and surprise him +by appearing at his door. How fully her mind was made up to do otherwise he did +not know. +</p> + +<p> +To Clym’s regret it began to rain and blow hard as the evening advanced. +The wind rasped and scraped at the corners of the house, and filliped the +eavesdroppings like peas against the panes. He walked restlessly about the +untenanted rooms, stopping strange noises in windows and doors by jamming +splinters of wood into the casements and crevices, and pressing together the +leadwork of the quarries where it had become loosened from the glass. It was +one of those nights when cracks in the walls of old churches widen, when +ancient stains on the ceilings of decayed manor houses are renewed and enlarged +from the size of a man’s hand to an area of many feet. The little gate in +the palings before his dwelling continually opened and clicked together again, +but when he looked out eagerly nobody was there; it was as if invisible shapes +of the dead were passing in on their way to visit him. +</p> + +<p> +Between ten and eleven o’clock, finding that neither Fairway nor anybody +else came to him, he retired to rest, and despite his anxieties soon fell +asleep. His sleep, however, was not very sound, by reason of the expectancy he +had given way to, and he was easily awakened by a knocking which began at the +door about an hour after. Clym arose and looked out of the window. Rain was +still falling heavily, the whole expanse of heath before him emitting a subdued +hiss under the downpour. It was too dark to see anything at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +Light footsteps shifted their position in the porch, and he could just +distinguish in a plaintive female voice the words, “O Clym, come down and +let me in!” +</p> + +<p> +He flushed hot with agitation. “Surely it is Eustacia!” he +murmured. If so, she had indeed come to him unawares. +</p> + +<p> +He hastily got a light, dressed himself, and went down. On his flinging open +the door the rays of the candle fell upon a woman closely wrapped up, who at +once came forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Thomasin!” he exclaimed in an indescribable tone of +disappointment. “It is Thomasin, and on such a night as this! O, where is +Eustacia?” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin it was, wet, frightened, and panting. +</p> + +<p> +“Eustacia? I don’t know, Clym; but I can think,” she said +with much perturbation. “Let me come in and rest—I will explain +this. There is a great trouble brewing—my husband and Eustacia!” +</p> + +<p> +“What, what?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think my husband is going to leave me or do something dreadful—I +don’t know what—Clym, will you go and see? I have nobody to help me +but you; Eustacia has not yet come home?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +She went on breathlessly: “Then they are going to run off together! He +came indoors tonight about eight o’clock and said in an off-hand way, +‘Tamsie, I have just found that I must go a journey.’ +‘When?’ I said. ‘Tonight,’ he said. +‘Where?’ I asked him. ‘I cannot tell you at present,’ +he said; ‘I shall be back again tomorrow.’ He then went and busied +himself in looking up his things, and took no notice of me at all. I expected +to see him start, but he did not, and then it came to be ten o’clock, +when he said, ‘You had better go to bed.’ I didn’t know what +to do, and I went to bed. I believe he thought I fell asleep, for half an hour +after that he came up and unlocked the oak chest we keep money in when we have +much in the house and took out a roll of something which I believe was +banknotes, though I was not aware that he had ’em there. These he must +have got from the bank when he went there the other day. What does he want +banknotes for, if he is only going off for a day? When he had gone down I +thought of Eustacia, and how he had met her the night before—I know he +did meet her, Clym, for I followed him part of the way; but I did not like to +tell you when you called, and so make you think ill of him, as I did not think +it was so serious. Then I could not stay in bed; I got up and dressed myself, +and when I heard him out in the stable I thought I would come and tell you. So +I came downstairs without any noise and slipped out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he was not absolutely gone when you left?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Will you, dear Cousin Clym, go and try to persuade him not to go? He +takes no notice of what I say, and puts me off with the story of his going on a +journey, and will be home tomorrow, and all that; but I don’t believe it. +I think you could influence him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go,” said Clym. “O, Eustacia!” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin carried in her arms a large bundle; and having by this time seated +herself she began to unroll it, when a baby appeared as the kernel to the +husks—dry, warm, and unconscious of travel or rough weather. Thomasin +briefly kissed the baby, and then found time to begin crying as she said, +“I brought baby, for I was afraid what might happen to her. I suppose it +will be her death, but I couldn’t leave her with Rachel!” +</p> + +<p> +Clym hastily put together the logs on the hearth, raked abroad the embers, +which were scarcely yet extinct, and blew up a flame with the bellows. +</p> + +<p> +“Dry yourself,” he said. “I’ll go and get some more +wood.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—don’t stay for that. I’ll make up the fire. +Will you go at once—please will you?” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright ran upstairs to finish dressing himself. While he was gone another +rapping came to the door. This time there was no delusion that it might be +Eustacia’s—the footsteps just preceding it had been heavy and slow. +Yeobright thinking it might possibly be Fairway with a note in answer, +descended again and opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Vye?” he said to a dripping figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Is my granddaughter here?” said the captain. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you ought to know—you are her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only in name apparently,” said Clym with rising excitement. +“I believe she means to elope tonight with Wildeve. I am just going to +look to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she has left my house; she left about half an hour ago. +Who’s sitting there?” +</p> + +<p> +“My cousin Thomasin.” +</p> + +<p> +The captain bowed in a preoccupied way to her. “I only hope it is no +worse than an elopement,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Worse? What’s worse than the worst a wife can do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have been told a strange tale. Before starting in search of her +I called up Charley, my stable lad. I missed my pistols the other day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pistols?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said at the time that he took them down to clean. He has now owned +that he took them because he saw Eustacia looking curiously at them; and she +afterwards owned to him that she was thinking of taking her life, but bound him +to secrecy, and promised never to think of such a thing again. I hardly suppose +she will ever have bravado enough to use one of them; but it shows what has +been lurking in her mind; and people who think of that sort of thing once think +of it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are the pistols?” +</p> + +<p> +“Safely locked up. O no, she won’t touch them again. But there are +more ways of letting out life than through a bullet-hole. What did you quarrel +about so bitterly with her to drive her to all this? You must have treated her +badly indeed. Well, I was always against the marriage, and I was right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going with me?” said Yeobright, paying no attention to the +captain’s latter remark. “If so I can tell you what we quarrelled +about as we walk along.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where to?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Wildeve’s—that was her destination, depend upon +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin here broke in, still weeping: “He said he was only going on a +sudden short journey; but if so why did he want so much money? O, Clym, what do +you think will happen? I am afraid that you, my poor baby, will soon have no +father left to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am off now,” said Yeobright, stepping into the porch. +</p> + +<p> +“I would fain go with ’ee,” said the old man doubtfully. +“But I begin to be afraid that my legs will hardly carry me there such a +night as this. I am not so young as I was. If they are interrupted in their +flight she will be sure to come back to me, and I ought to be at the house to +receive her. But be it as ’twill I can’t walk to the Quiet Woman, +and that’s an end on’t. I’ll go straight home.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will perhaps be best,” said Clym. “Thomasin, dry +yourself, and be as comfortable as you can.” +</p> + +<p> +With this he closed the door upon her, and left the house in company with +Captain Vye, who parted from him outside the gate, taking the middle path, +which led to Mistover. Clym crossed by the right-hand track towards the inn. +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin, being left alone, took off some of her wet garments, carried the baby +upstairs to Clym’s bed, and then came down to the sitting-room again, +where she made a larger fire, and began drying herself. The fire soon flared up +the chimney, giving the room an appearance of comfort that was doubled by +contrast with the drumming of the storm without, which snapped at the +windowpanes and breathed into the chimney strange low utterances that seemed to +be the prologue to some tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +But the least part of Thomasin was in the house, for her heart being at ease +about the little girl upstairs she was mentally following Clym on his journey. +Having indulged in this imaginary peregrination for some considerable interval, +she became impressed with a sense of the intolerable slowness of time. But she +sat on. The moment then came when she could scarcely sit longer, and it was +like a satire on her patience to remember that Clym could hardly have reached +the inn as yet. At last she went to the baby’s bedside. The child was +sleeping soundly; but her imagination of possibly disastrous events at her +home, the predominance within her of the unseen over the seen, agitated her +beyond endurance. She could not refrain from going down and opening the door. +The rain still continued, the candlelight falling upon the nearest drops and +making glistening darts of them as they descended across the throng of +invisible ones behind. To plunge into that medium was to plunge into water +slightly diluted with air. But the difficulty of returning to her house at this +moment made her all the more desirous of doing so—anything was better +than suspense. “I have come here well enough,” she said, “and +why shouldn’t I go back again? It is a mistake for me to be away.” +</p> + +<p> +She hastily fetched the infant, wrapped it up, cloaked herself as before, and +shoveling the ashes over the fire, to prevent accidents, went into the open +air. Pausing first to put the door key in its old place behind the shutter, she +resolutely turned her face to the confronting pile of firmamental darkness +beyond the palings, and stepped into its midst. But Thomasin’s +imagination being so actively engaged elsewhere, the night and the weather had +for her no terror beyond that of their actual discomfort and difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +She was soon ascending Blooms-End valley and traversing the undulations on the +side of the hill. The noise of the wind over the heath was shrill, and as if it +whistled for joy at finding a night so congenial as this. Sometimes the path +led her to hollows between thickets of tall and dripping bracken, dead, though +not yet prostrate, which enclosed her like a pool. When they were more than +usually tall she lifted the baby to the top of her head, that it might be out +of the reach of their drenching fronds. On higher ground, where the wind was +brisk and sustained, the rain flew in a level flight without sensible descent, +so that it was beyond all power to imagine the remoteness of the point at which +it left the bosoms of the clouds. Here self-defence was impossible, and +individual drops stuck into her like the arrows into Saint Sebastian. She was +enabled to avoid puddles by the nebulous paleness which signified their +presence, though beside anything less dark than the heath they themselves would +have appeared as blackness. +</p> + +<p> +Yet in spite of all this Thomasin was not sorry that she had started. To her +there were not, as to Eustacia, demons in the air, and malice in every bush and +bough. The drops which lashed her face were not scorpions, but prosy rain; +Egdon in the mass was no monster whatever, but impersonal open ground. Her +fears of the place were rational, her dislikes of its worst moods reasonable. +At this time it was in her view a windy, wet place, in which a person might +experience much discomfort, lose the path without care, and possibly catch +cold. +</p> + +<p> +If the path is well known the difficulty at such times of keeping therein is +not altogether great, from its familiar feel to the feet; but once lost it is +irrecoverable. Owing to her baby, who somewhat impeded Thomasin’s view +forward and distracted her mind, she did at last lose the track. This mishap +occurred when she was descending an open slope about two-thirds home. Instead +of attempting, by wandering hither and thither, the hopeless task of finding +such a mere thread, she went straight on, trusting for guidance to her general +knowledge of the contours, which was scarcely surpassed by Clym’s or by +that of the heath-croppers themselves. +</p> + +<p> +At length Thomasin reached a hollow and began to discern through the rain a +faint blotted radiance, which presently assumed the oblong form of an open +door. She knew that no house stood hereabouts, and was soon aware of the nature +of the door by its height above the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it is Diggory Venn’s van, surely!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +A certain secluded spot near Rainbarrow was, she knew, often Venn’s +chosen centre when staying in this neighbourhood; and she guessed at once that +she had stumbled upon this mysterious retreat. The question arose in her mind +whether or not she should ask him to guide her into the path. In her anxiety to +reach home she decided that she would appeal to him, notwithstanding the +strangeness of appearing before his eyes at this place and season. But when, in +pursuance of this resolve, Thomasin reached the van and looked in she found it +to be untenanted; though there was no doubt that it was the reddleman’s. +The fire was burning in the stove, the lantern hung from the nail. Round the +doorway the floor was merely sprinkled with rain, and not saturated, which told +her that the door had not long been opened. +</p> + +<p> +While she stood uncertainly looking in Thomasin heard a footstep advancing from +the darkness behind her, and turning, beheld the well-known form in corduroy, +lurid from head to foot, the lantern beams falling upon him through an +intervening gauze of raindrops. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you went down the slope,” he said, without noticing her +face. “How do you come back here again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Diggory?” said Thomasin faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” said Venn, still unperceiving. “And why were +you crying so just now?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Diggory! don’t you know me?” said she. “But of +course you don’t, wrapped up like this. What do you mean? I have not been +crying here, and I have not been here before.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn then came nearer till he could see the illuminated side of her form. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Wildeve!” he exclaimed, starting. “What a time for us +to meet! And the baby too! What dreadful thing can have brought you out on such +a night as this?” +</p> + +<p> +She could not immediately answer; and without asking her permission he hopped +into his van, took her by the arm, and drew her up after him. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he continued when they stood within. +</p> + +<p> +“I have lost my way coming from Blooms-End, and I am in a great hurry to +get home. Please show me as quickly as you can! It is so silly of me not to +know Egdon better, and I cannot think how I came to lose the path. Show me +quickly, Diggory, please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course. I will go with ’ee. But you came to me before +this, Mrs. Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“I only came this minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s strange. I was lying down here asleep about five minutes +ago, with the door shut to keep out the weather, when the brushing of a +woman’s clothes over the heath-bushes just outside woke me up, for I +don’t sleep heavy, and at the same time I heard a sobbing or crying from +the same woman. I opened my door and held out my lantern, and just as far as +the light would reach I saw a woman; she turned her head when the light sheened +on her, and then hurried on downhill. I hung up the lantern, and was curious +enough to pull on my things and dog her a few steps, but I could see nothing of +her any more. That was where I had been when you came up; and when I saw you I +thought you were the same one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it was one of the heathfolk going home?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it couldn’t be. ’Tis too late. The noise of her gown +over the he’th was of a whistling sort that nothing but silk will +make.” +</p> + +<p> +“It wasn’t I, then. My dress is not silk, you see.... Are we +anywhere in a line between Mistover and the inn?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes; not far out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I wonder if it was she! Diggory, I must go at once!” +</p> + +<p> +She jumped down from the van before he was aware, when Venn unhooked the +lantern and leaped down after her. “I’ll take the baby, +ma’am,” he said. “You must be tired out by the weight.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin hesitated a moment, and then delivered the baby into Venn’s +hands. “Don’t squeeze her, Diggory,” she said, “or hurt +her little arm; and keep the cloak close over her like this, so that the rain +may not drop in her face.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” said Venn earnestly. “As if I could hurt anything +belonging to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I only meant accidentally,” said Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +“The baby is dry enough, but you are pretty wet,” said the +reddleman when, in closing the door of his cart to padlock it, he noticed on +the floor a ring of water drops where her cloak had hung from her. +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin followed him as he wound right and left to avoid the larger bushes, +stopping occasionally and covering the lantern, while he looked over his +shoulder to gain some idea of the position of Rainbarrow above them, which it +was necessary to keep directly behind their backs to preserve a proper course. +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure the rain does not fall upon baby?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure. May I ask how old he is, ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +“He!” said Thomasin reproachfully. “Anybody can see better +than that in a moment. She is nearly two months old. How far is it now to the +inn?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little over a quarter of a mile.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you walk a little faster?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid you could not keep up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very anxious to get there. Ah, there is a light from the +window!” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis not from the window. That’s a gig-lamp, to the best of +my belief.” +</p> + +<p> +“O!” said Thomasin in despair. “I wish I had been there +sooner—give me the baby, Diggory—you can go back now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go all the way,” said Venn. “There is a quag between +us and that light, and you will walk into it up to your neck unless I take you +round.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the light is at the inn, and there is no quag in front of +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, the light is below the inn some two or three hundred yards.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind,” said Thomasin hurriedly. “Go towards the light, +and not towards the inn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Venn, swerving round in obedience; and, after a +pause, “I wish you would tell me what this great trouble is. I think you +have proved that I can be trusted.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are some things that cannot be—cannot be told +to—” And then her heart rose into her throat, and she could say no +more. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a>IX.<br /> +Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together</h2> + +<p> +Having seen Eustacia’s signal from the hill at eight o’clock, +Wildeve immediately prepared to assist her in her flight, and, as he hoped, +accompany her. He was somewhat perturbed, and his manner of informing Thomasin +that he was going on a journey was in itself sufficient to rouse her +suspicions. When she had gone to bed he collected the few articles he would +require, and went upstairs to the money-chest, whence he took a tolerably +bountiful sum in notes, which had been advanced to him on the property he was +so soon to have in possession, to defray expenses incidental to the removal. +</p> + +<p> +He then went to the stable and coach-house to assure himself that the horse, +gig, and harness were in a fit condition for a long drive. Nearly half an hour +was spent thus, and on returning to the house Wildeve had no thought of +Thomasin being anywhere but in bed. He had told the stable lad not to stay up, +leading the boy to understand that his departure would be at three or four in +the morning; for this, though an exceptional hour, was less strange than +midnight, the time actually agreed on, the packet from Budmouth sailing between +one and two. +</p> + +<p> +At last all was quiet, and he had nothing to do but to wait. By no effort could +he shake off the oppression of spirits which he had experienced ever since his +last meeting with Eustacia, but he hoped there was that in his situation which +money could cure. He had persuaded himself that to act not ungenerously towards +his gentle wife by settling on her the half of his property, and with +chivalrous devotion towards another and greater woman by sharing her fate, was +possible. And though he meant to adhere to Eustacia’s instructions to the +letter, to deposit her where she wished and to leave her, should that be her +will, the spell that she had cast over him intensified, and his heart was +beating fast in the anticipated futility of such commands in the face of a +mutual wish that they should throw in their lot together. +</p> + +<p> +He would not allow himself to dwell long upon these conjectures, maxims, and +hopes, and at twenty minutes to twelve he again went softly to the stable, +harnessed the horse, and lit the lamps; whence, taking the horse by the head, +he led him with the covered car out of the yard to a spot by the roadside some +quarter of a mile below the inn. +</p> + +<p> +Here Wildeve waited, slightly sheltered from the driving rain by a high bank +that had been cast up at this place. Along the surface of the road where lit by +the lamps the loosened gravel and small stones scudded and clicked together +before the wind, which, leaving them in heaps, plunged into the heath and +boomed across the bushes into darkness. Only one sound rose above this din of +weather, and that was the roaring of a ten-hatch weir to the southward, from a +river in the meads which formed the boundary of the heath in this direction. +</p> + +<p> +He lingered on in perfect stillness till he began to fancy that the midnight +hour must have struck. A very strong doubt had arisen in his mind if Eustacia +would venture down the hill in such weather; yet knowing her nature he felt +that she might. “Poor thing! ’tis like her ill-luck,” he +murmured. +</p> + +<p> +At length he turned to the lamp and looked at his watch. To his surprise it was +nearly a quarter past midnight. He now wished that he had driven up the +circuitous road to Mistover, a plan not adopted because of the enormous length +of the route in proportion to that of the pedestrian’s path down the open +hillside, and the consequent increase of labour for the horse. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment a footstep approached; but the light of the lamps being in a +different direction the comer was not visible. The step paused, then came on +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Eustacia?” said Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +The person came forward, and the light fell upon the form of Clym, glistening +with wet, whom Wildeve immediately recognized; but Wildeve, who stood behind +the lamp, was not at once recognized by Yeobright. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped as if in doubt whether this waiting vehicle could have anything to +do with the flight of his wife or not. The sight of Yeobright at once banished +Wildeve’s sober feelings, who saw him again as the deadly rival from whom +Eustacia was to be kept at all hazards. Hence Wildeve did not speak, in the +hope that Clym would pass by without particular inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +While they both hung thus in hesitation a dull sound became audible above the +storm and wind. Its origin was unmistakable—it was the fall of a body +into the stream in the adjoining mead, apparently at a point near the weir. +</p> + +<p> +Both started. “Good God! can it be she?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should it be she?” said Wildeve, in his alarm forgetting that +he had hitherto screened himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!—that’s you, you traitor, is it?” cried Yeobright. +“Why should it be she? Because last week she would have put an end to her +life if she had been able. She ought to have been watched! Take one of the +lamps and come with me.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright seized the one on his side and hastened on; Wildeve did not wait to +unfasten the other, but followed at once along the meadow track to the weir, a +little in the rear of Clym. +</p> + +<p> +Shadwater Weir had at its foot a large circular pool, fifty feet in diameter, +into which the water flowed through ten huge hatches, raised and lowered by a +winch and cogs in the ordinary manner. The sides of the pool were of masonry, +to prevent the water from washing away the bank; but the force of the stream in +winter was sometimes such as to undermine the retaining wall and precipitate it +into the hole. Clym reached the hatches, the framework of which was shaken to +its foundations by the velocity of the current. Nothing but the froth of the +waves could be discerned in the pool below. He got upon the plank bridge over +the race, and holding to the rail, that the wind might not blow him off, +crossed to the other side of the river. There he leant over the wall and +lowered the lamp, only to behold the vortex formed at the curl of the returning +current. +</p> + +<p> +Wildeve meanwhile had arrived on the former side, and the light from +Yeobright’s lamp shed a flecked and agitated radiance across the weir +pool, revealing to the ex-engineer the tumbling courses of the currents from +the hatches above. Across this gashed and puckered mirror a dark body was +slowly borne by one of the backward currents. +</p> + +<p> +“O, my darling!” exclaimed Wildeve in an agonized voice; and, +without showing sufficient presence of mind even to throw off his greatcoat, he +leaped into the boiling caldron. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright could now also discern the floating body, though but indistinctly; +and imagining from Wildeve’s plunge that there was life to be saved he +was about to leap after. Bethinking himself of a wiser plan, he placed the lamp +against a post to make it stand upright, and running round to the lower part of +the pool, where there was no wall, he sprang in and boldly waded upwards +towards the deeper portion. Here he was taken off his legs, and in swimming was +carried round into the centre of the basin, where he perceived Wildeve +struggling. +</p> + +<p> +While these hasty actions were in progress here, Venn and Thomasin had been +toiling through the lower corner of the heath in the direction of the light. +They had not been near enough to the river to hear the plunge, but they saw the +removal of the carriage lamp, and watched its motion into the mead. As soon as +they reached the car and horse Venn guessed that something new was amiss, and +hastened to follow in the course of the moving light. Venn walked faster than +Thomasin, and came to the weir alone. +</p> + +<p> +The lamp placed against the post by Clym still shone across the water, and the +reddleman observed something floating motionless. Being encumbered with the +infant, he ran back to meet Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +“Take the baby, please, Mrs. Wildeve,” he said hastily. “Run +home with her, call the stable lad, and make him send down to me any men who +may be living near. Somebody has fallen into the weir.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin took the child and ran. When she came to the covered car the horse, +though fresh from the stable, was standing perfectly still, as if conscious of +misfortune. She saw for the first time whose it was. She nearly fainted, and +would have been unable to proceed another step but that the necessity of +preserving the little girl from harm nerved her to an amazing self-control. In +this agony of suspense she entered the house, put the baby in a place of +safety, woke the lad and the female domestic, and ran out to give the alarm at +the nearest cottage. +</p> + +<p> +Diggory, having returned to the brink of the pool, observed that the small +upper hatches or floats were withdrawn. He found one of these lying upon the +grass, and taking it under one arm, and with his lantern in his hand, entered +at the bottom of the pool as Clym had done. As soon as he began to be in deep +water he flung himself across the hatch; thus supported he was able to keep +afloat as long as he chose, holding the lantern aloft with his disengaged hand. +Propelled by his feet, he steered round and round the pool, ascending each time +by one of the back streams and descending in the middle of the current. +</p> + +<p> +At first he could see nothing. Then amidst the glistening of the whirlpools and +the white clots of foam he distinguished a woman’s bonnet floating alone. +His search was now under the left wall, when something came to the surface +almost close beside him. It was not, as he had expected, a woman, but a man. +The reddleman put the ring of the lantern between his teeth, seized the +floating man by the collar, and, holding on to the hatch with his remaining +arm, struck out into the strongest race, by which the unconscious man, the +hatch, and himself were carried down the stream. As soon as Venn found his feet +dragging over the pebbles of the shallower part below he secured his footing +and waded towards the brink. There, where the water stood at about the height +of his waist, he flung away the hatch, and attempted to drag forth the man. +This was a matter of great difficulty, and he found as the reason that the legs +of the unfortunate stranger were tightly embraced by the arms of another man, +who had hitherto been entirely beneath the surface. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment his heart bounded to hear footsteps running towards him, and two +men, roused by Thomasin, appeared at the brink above. They ran to where Venn +was, and helped him in lifting out the apparently drowned persons, separating +them, and laying them out upon the grass. Venn turned the light upon their +faces. The one who had been uppermost was Yeobright; he who had been completely +submerged was Wildeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Now we must search the hole again,” said Venn. “A woman is +in there somewhere. Get a pole.” +</p> + +<p> +One of the men went to the footbridge and tore off the handrail. The reddleman +and the two others then entered the water together from below as before, and +with their united force probed the pool forwards to where it sloped down to its +central depth. Venn was not mistaken in supposing that any person who had sunk +for the last time would be washed down to this point, for when they had +examined to about halfway across something impeded their thrust. +</p> + +<p> +“Pull it forward,” said Venn, and they raked it in with the pole +till it was close to their feet. +</p> + +<p> +Venn vanished under the stream, and came up with an armful of wet drapery +enclosing a woman’s cold form, which was all that remained of the +desperate Eustacia. +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the bank there stood Thomasin, in a stress of grief, bending +over the two unconscious ones who already lay there. The horse and cart were +brought to the nearest point in the road, and it was the work of a few minutes +only to place the three in the vehicle. Venn led on the horse, supporting +Thomasin upon his arm, and the two men followed, till they reached the inn. +</p> + +<p> +The woman who had been shaken out of her sleep by Thomasin had hastily dressed +herself and lighted a fire, the other servant being left to snore on in peace +at the back of the house. The insensible forms of Eustacia, Clym, and Wildeve +were then brought in and laid on the carpet, with their feet to the fire, when +such restorative processes as could be thought of were adopted at once, the +stableman being in the meantime sent for a doctor. But there seemed to be not a +whiff of life in either of the bodies. Then Thomasin, whose stupor of grief had +been thrust off awhile by frantic action, applied a bottle of hartshorn to +Clym’s nostrils, having tried it in vain upon the other two. He sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Clym’s alive!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +He soon breathed distinctly, and again and again did she attempt to revive her +husband by the same means; but Wildeve gave no sign. There was too much reason +to think that he and Eustacia both were for ever beyond the reach of +stimulating perfumes. Their exertions did not relax till the doctor arrived, +when one by one, the senseless three were taken upstairs and put into warm +beds. +</p> + +<p> +Venn soon felt himself relieved from further attendance, and went to the door, +scarcely able yet to realize the strange catastrophe that had befallen the +family in which he took so great an interest. Thomasin surely would be broken +down by the sudden and overwhelming nature of this event. No firm and sensible +Mrs. Yeobright lived now to support the gentle girl through the ordeal; and, +whatever an unimpassioned spectator might think of her loss of such a husband +as Wildeve, there could be no doubt that for the moment she was distracted and +horrified by the blow. As for himself, not being privileged to go to her and +comfort her, he saw no reason for waiting longer in a house where he remained +only as a stranger. +</p> + +<p> +He returned across the heath to his van. The fire was not yet out, and +everything remained as he had left it. Venn now bethought himself of his +clothes, which were saturated with water to the weight of lead. He changed +them, spread them before the fire, and lay down to sleep. But it was more than +he could do to rest here while excited by a vivid imagination of the turmoil +they were in at the house he had quitted, and, blaming himself for coming away, +he dressed in another suit, locked up the door, and again hastened across to +the inn. Rain was still falling heavily when he entered the kitchen. A bright +fire was shining from the hearth, and two women were bustling about, one of +whom was Olly Dowden. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how is it going on now?” said Venn in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Yeobright is better; but Mrs. Yeobright and Mr. Wildeve are dead and +cold. The doctor says they were quite gone before they were out of the +water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I thought as much when I hauled ’em up. And Mrs. +Wildeve?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is as well as can be expected. The doctor had her put between +blankets, for she was almost as wet as they that had been in the river, poor +young thing. You don’t seem very dry, reddleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ’tis not much. I have changed my things. This is only a little +dampness I’ve got coming through the rain again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stand by the fire. Mis’ess says you be to have whatever you want, +and she was sorry when she was told that you’d gone away.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn drew near to the fireplace, and looked into the flames in an absent mood. +The steam came from his leggings and ascended the chimney with the smoke, while +he thought of those who were upstairs. Two were corpses, one had barely escaped +the jaws of death, another was sick and a widow. The last occasion on which he +had lingered by that fireplace was when the raffle was in progress; when +Wildeve was alive and well; Thomasin active and smiling in the next room; +Yeobright and Eustacia just made husband and wife, and Mrs. Yeobright living at +Blooms-End. It had seemed at that time that the then position of affairs was +good for at least twenty years to come. Yet, of all the circle, he himself was +the only one whose situation had not materially changed. +</p> + +<p> +While he ruminated a footstep descended the stairs. It was the nurse, who +brought in her hand a rolled mass of wet paper. The woman was so engrossed with +her occupation that she hardly saw Venn. She took from a cupboard some pieces +of twine, which she strained across the fireplace, tying the end of each piece +to the firedog, previously pulled forward for the purpose, and, unrolling the +wet papers, she began pinning them one by one to the strings in a manner of +clothes on a line. +</p> + +<p> +“What be they?” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor master’s banknotes,” she answered. “They were +found in his pocket when they undressed him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he was not coming back again for some time?” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“That we shall never know,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Venn was loth to depart, for all on earth that interested him lay under this +roof. As nobody in the house had any more sleep that night, except the two who +slept for ever, there was no reason why he should not remain. So he retired +into the niche of the fireplace where he had used to sit, and there he +continued, watching the steam from the double row of banknotes as they waved +backwards and forwards in the draught of the chimney till their flaccidity was +changed to dry crispness throughout. Then the woman came and unpinned them, +and, folding them together, carried the handful upstairs. Presently the doctor +appeared from above with the look of a man who could do no more, and, pulling +on his gloves, went out of the house, the trotting of his horse soon dying away +upon the road. +</p> + +<p> +At four o’clock there was a gentle knock at the door. It was from +Charley, who had been sent by Captain Vye to inquire if anything had been heard +of Eustacia. The girl who admitted him looked in his face as if she did not +know what answer to return, and showed him in to where Venn was seated, saying +to the reddleman, “Will you tell him, please?” +</p> + +<p> +Venn told. Charley’s only utterance was a feeble, indistinct sound. He +stood quite still; then he burst out spasmodically, “I shall see her once +more?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say you may see her,” said Diggory gravely. “But +hadn’t you better run and tell Captain Vye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes. Only I do hope I shall see her just once again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall,” said a low voice behind; and starting round they +beheld by the dim light, a thin, pallid, almost spectral form, wrapped in a +blanket, and looking like Lazarus coming from the tomb. +</p> + +<p> +It was Yeobright. Neither Venn nor Charley spoke, and Clym continued, +“You shall see her. There will be time enough to tell the captain when it +gets daylight. You would like to see her too—would you not, Diggory? She +looks very beautiful now.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn assented by rising to his feet, and with Charley he followed Clym to the +foot of the staircase, where he took off his boots; Charley did the same. They +followed Yeobright upstairs to the landing, where there was a candle burning, +which Yeobright took in his hand, and with it led the way into an adjoining +room. Here he went to the bedside and folded back the sheet. +</p> + +<p> +They stood silently looking upon Eustacia, who, as she lay there still in +death, eclipsed all her living phases. Pallor did not include all the quality +of her complexion, which seemed more than whiteness; it was almost light. The +expression of her finely carved mouth was pleasant, as if a sense of dignity +had just compelled her to leave off speaking. Eternal rigidity had seized upon +it in a momentary transition between fervour and resignation. Her black hair +was looser now than either of them had ever seen it before, and surrounded her +brow like a forest. The stateliness of look which had been almost too marked +for a dweller in a country domicile had at last found an artistically happy +background. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody spoke, till at length Clym covered her and turned aside. “Now come +here,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +They went to a recess in the same room, and there, on a smaller bed, lay +another figure—Wildeve. Less repose was visible in his face than in +Eustacia’s, but the same luminous youthfulness overspread it, and the +least sympathetic observer would have felt at sight of him now that he was born +for a higher destiny than this. The only sign upon him of his recent struggle +for life was in his fingertips, which were worn and sacrificed in his dying +endeavours to obtain a hold on the face of the weir-wall. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright’s manner had been so quiet, he had uttered so few syllables +since his reappearance, that Venn imagined him resigned. It was only when they +had left the room and stood upon the landing that the true state of his mind +was apparent. Here he said, with a wild smile, inclining his head towards the +chamber in which Eustacia lay, “She is the second woman I have killed +this year. I was a great cause of my mother’s death, and I am the chief +cause of hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” said Venn. +</p> + +<p> +“I spoke cruel words to her, and she left my house. I did not invite her +back till it was too late. It is I who ought to have drowned myself. It would +have been a charity to the living had the river overwhelmed me and borne her +up. But I cannot die. Those who ought to have lived lie dead; and here am I +alive!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you can’t charge yourself with crimes in that way,” said +Venn. “You may as well say that the parents be the cause of a murder by +the child, for without the parents the child would never have been +begot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Venn, that is very true; but you don’t know all the +circumstances. If it had pleased God to put an end to me it would have been a +good thing for all. But I am getting used to the horror of my existence. They +say that a time comes when men laugh at misery through long acquaintance with +it. Surely that time will soon come to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your aim has always been good,” said Venn. “Why should you +say such desperate things?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, they are not desperate. They are only hopeless; and my great regret +is that for what I have done no man or law can punish me!” +</p> +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="book06"></a>BOOK SIXTH—AFTERCOURSES</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a>I.<br /> +The Inevitable Movement Onward</h2> + +<p> +The story of the deaths of Eustacia and Wildeve was told throughout Egdon, and +far beyond, for many weeks and months. All the known incidents of their love +were enlarged, distorted, touched up, and modified, till the original reality +bore but a slight resemblance to the counterfeit presentation by surrounding +tongues. Yet, upon the whole, neither the man nor the woman lost dignity by +sudden death. Misfortune had struck them gracefully, cutting off their erratic +histories with a catastrophic dash, instead of, as with many, attenuating each +life to an uninteresting meagreness, through long years of wrinkles, neglect, +and decay. +</p> + +<p> +On those most nearly concerned the effect was somewhat different. Strangers who +had heard of many such cases now merely heard of one more; but immediately +where a blow falls no previous imaginings amount to appreciable preparation for +it. The very suddenness of her bereavement dulled, to some extent, +Thomasin’s feelings; yet irrationally enough, a consciousness that the +husband she had lost ought to have been a better man did not lessen her +mourning at all. On the contrary, this fact seemed at first to set off the dead +husband in his young wife’s eyes, and to be the necessary cloud to the +rainbow. +</p> + +<p> +But the horrors of the unknown had passed. Vague misgivings about her future as +a deserted wife were at an end. The worst had once been matter of trembling +conjecture; it was now matter of reason only, a limited badness. Her chief +interest, the little Eustacia, still remained. There was humility in her grief, +no defiance in her attitude; and when this is the case a shaken spirit is apt +to be stilled. +</p> + +<p> +Could Thomasin’s mournfulness now and Eustacia’s serenity during +life have been reduced to common measure, they would have touched the same mark +nearly. But Thomasin’s former brightness made shadow of that which in a +sombre atmosphere was light itself. +</p> + +<p> +The spring came and calmed her; the summer came and soothed her; the autumn +arrived, and she began to be comforted, for her little girl was strong and +happy, growing in size and knowledge every day. Outward events flattered +Thomasin not a little. Wildeve had died intestate, and she and the child were +his only relatives. When administration had been granted, all the debts paid, +and the residue of her husband’s uncle’s property had come into her +hands, it was found that the sum waiting to be invested for her own and the +child’s benefit was little less than ten thousand pounds. +</p> + +<p> +Where should she live? The obvious place was Blooms-End. The old rooms, it is +true, were not much higher than the between-decks of a frigate, necessitating a +sinking in the floor under the new clock-case she brought from the inn, and the +removal of the handsome brass knobs on its head, before there was height for it +to stand; but, such as the rooms were, there were plenty of them, and the place +was endeared to her by every early recollection. Clym very gladly admitted her +as a tenant, confining his own existence to two rooms at the top of the back +staircase, where he lived on quietly, shut off from Thomasin and the three +servants she had thought fit to indulge in now that she was a mistress of +money, going his own ways, and thinking his own thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +His sorrows had made some change in his outward appearance; and yet the +alteration was chiefly within. It might have been said that he had a wrinkled +mind. He had no enemies, and he could get nobody to reproach him, which was why +he so bitterly reproached himself. +</p> + +<p> +He did sometimes think he had been ill-used by fortune, so far as to say that +to be born is a palpable dilemma, and that instead of men aiming to advance in +life with glory they should calculate how to retreat out of it without shame. +But that he and his had been sarcastically and pitilessly handled in having +such irons thrust into their souls he did not maintain long. It is usually so, +except with the sternest of men. Human beings, in their generous endeavour to +construct a hypothesis that shall not degrade a First Cause, have always +hesitated to conceive a dominant power of lower moral quality than their own; +and, even while they sit down and weep by the waters of Babylon, invent excuses +for the oppression which prompts their tears. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, though words of solace were vainly uttered in his presence, he found +relief in a direction of his own choosing when left to himself. For a man of +his habits the house and the hundred and twenty pounds a year which he had +inherited from his mother were enough to supply all worldly needs. Resources do +not depend upon gross amounts, but upon the proportion of spendings to takings. +</p> + +<p> +He frequently walked the heath alone, when the past seized upon him with its +shadowy hand, and held him there to listen to its tale. His imagination would +then people the spot with its ancient inhabitants—forgotten Celtic tribes +trod their tracks about him, and he could almost live among them, look in their +faces, and see them standing beside the barrows which swelled around, untouched +and perfect as at the time of their erection. Those of the dyed barbarians who +had chosen the cultivable tracts were, in comparison with those who had left +their marks here, as writers on paper beside writers on parchment. Their +records had perished long ago by the plough, while the works of these remained. +Yet they all had lived and died unconscious of the different fates awaiting +their relics. It reminded him that unforeseen factors operate in the evolution +of immortality. +</p> + +<p> +Winter again came round, with its winds, frosts, tame robins, and sparkling +starlight. The year previous Thomasin had hardly been conscious of the +season’s advance; this year she laid her heart open to external +influences of every kind. The life of this sweet cousin, her baby, and her +servants, came to Clym’s senses only in the form of sounds through a wood +partition as he sat over books of exceptionally large type; but his ear became +at last so accustomed to these slight noises from the other part of the house +that he almost could witness the scenes they signified. A faint beat of +half-seconds conjured up Thomasin rocking the cradle, a wavering hum meant that +she was singing the baby to sleep, a crunching of sand as between millstones +raised the picture of Humphrey’s, Fairway’s, or Sam’s heavy +feet crossing the stone floor of the kitchen; a light boyish step, and a gay +tune in a high key, betokened a visit from Grandfer Cantle; a sudden break-off +in the Grandfer’s utterances implied the application to his lips of a mug +of small beer, a bustling and slamming of doors meant starting to go to market; +for Thomasin, in spite of her added scope of gentility, led a ludicrously +narrow life, to the end that she might save every possible pound for her little +daughter. +</p> + +<p> +One summer day Clym was in the garden, immediately outside the parlour window, +which was as usual open. He was looking at the pot-flowers on the sill; they +had been revived and restored by Thomasin to the state in which his mother had +left them. He heard a slight scream from Thomasin, who was sitting inside the +room. +</p> + +<p> +“O, how you frightened me!” she said to someone who had entered. +“I thought you were the ghost of yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym was curious enough to advance a little further and look in at the window. +To his astonishment there stood within the room Diggory Venn, no longer a +reddleman, but exhibiting the strangely altered hues of an ordinary Christian +countenance, white shirt-front, light flowered waistcoat, blue-spotted +neckerchief, and bottle-green coat. Nothing in this appearance was at all +singular but the fact of its great difference from what he had formerly been. +Red, and all approach to red, was carefully excluded from every article of +clothes upon him; for what is there that persons just out of harness dread so +much as reminders of the trade which has enriched them? +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright went round to the door and entered. +</p> + +<p> +“I was so alarmed!” said Thomasin, smiling from one to the other. +“I couldn’t believe that he had got white of his own accord! It +seemed supernatural.” +</p> + +<p> +“I gave up dealing in reddle last Christmas,” said Venn. “It +was a profitable trade, and I found that by that time I had made enough to take +the dairy of fifty cows that my father had in his lifetime. I always thought of +getting to that place again if I changed at all, and now I am there.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you manage to become white, Diggory?” Thomasin asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I turned so by degrees, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look much better than ever you did before.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn appeared confused; and Thomasin, seeing how inadvertently she had spoken +to a man who might possibly have tender feelings for her still, blushed a +little. Clym saw nothing of this, and added good-humouredly— +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we have to frighten Thomasin’s baby with, now you have +become a human being again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, Diggory,” said Thomasin, “and stay to tea.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn moved as if he would retire to the kitchen, when Thomasin said with +pleasant pertness as she went on with some sewing, “Of course you must +sit down here. And where does your fifty-cow dairy lie, Mr. Venn?” +</p> + +<p> +“At Stickleford—about two miles to the right of Alderworth, +ma’am, where the meads begin. I have thought that if Mr. Yeobright would +like to pay me a visit sometimes he shouldn’t stay away for want of +asking. I’ll not bide to tea this afternoon, thank’ee, for +I’ve got something on hand that must be settled. ’Tis Maypole-day +tomorrow, and the Shadwater folk have clubbed with a few of your neighbours +here to have a pole just outside your palings in the heath, as it is a nice +green place.” Venn waved his elbow towards the patch in front of the +house. “I have been talking to Fairway about it,” he continued, +“and I said to him that before we put up the pole it would be as well to +ask Mrs. Wildeve.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can say nothing against it,” she answered. “Our property +does not reach an inch further than the white palings.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you might not like to see a lot of folk going crazy round a stick, +under your very nose?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have no objection at all.” +</p> + +<p> +Venn soon after went away, and in the evening Yeobright strolled as far as +Fairway’s cottage. It was a lovely May sunset, and the birch trees which +grew on this margin of the vast Egdon wilderness had put on their new leaves, +delicate as butterflies’ wings, and diaphanous as amber. Beside +Fairway’s dwelling was an open space recessed from the road, and here +were now collected all the young people from within a radius of a couple of +miles. The pole lay with one end supported on a trestle, and women were engaged +in wreathing it from the top downwards with wild-flowers. The instincts of +merry England lingered on here with exceptional vitality, and the symbolic +customs which tradition has attached to each season of the year were yet a +reality on Egdon. Indeed, the impulses of all such outlandish hamlets are pagan +still—in these spots homage to nature, self-adoration, frantic gaieties, +fragments of Teutonic rites to divinities whose names are forgotten, seem in +some way or other to have survived mediæval doctrine. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright did not interrupt the preparations, and went home again. The next +morning, when Thomasin withdrew the curtains of her bedroom window, there stood +the Maypole in the middle of the green, its top cutting into the sky. It had +sprung up in the night, or rather early morning, like Jack’s bean-stalk. +She opened the casement to get a better view of the garlands and posies that +adorned it. The sweet perfume of the flowers had already spread into the +surrounding air, which, being free from every taint, conducted to her lips a +full measure of the fragrance received from the spire of blossom in its midst. +At the top of the pole were crossed hoops decked with small flowers; beneath +these came a milk-white zone of Maybloom; then a zone of bluebells, then of +cowslips, then of lilacs, then of ragged-robins, daffodils, and so on, till the +lowest stage was reached. Thomasin noticed all these, and was delighted that +the May revel was to be so near. +</p> + +<p> +When afternoon came people began to gather on the green, and Yeobright was +interested enough to look out upon them from the open window of his room. Soon +after this Thomasin walked out from the door immediately below and turned her +eyes up to her cousin’s face. She was dressed more gaily than Yeobright +had ever seen her dressed since the time of Wildeve’s death, eighteen +months before; since the day of her marriage even she had not exhibited herself +to such advantage. +</p> + +<p> +“How pretty you look today, Thomasin!” he said. “Is it +because of the Maypole?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not altogether.” And then she blushed and dropped her eyes, which +he did not specially observe, though her manner seemed to him to be rather +peculiar, considering that she was only addressing himself. Could it be +possible that she had put on her summer clothes to please him? +</p> + +<p> +He recalled her conduct towards him throughout the last few weeks, when they +had often been working together in the garden, just as they had formerly done +when they were boy and girl under his mother’s eye. What if her interest +in him were not so entirely that of a relative as it had formerly been? To +Yeobright any possibility of this sort was a serious matter; and he almost felt +troubled at the thought of it. Every pulse of loverlike feeling which had not +been stilled during Eustacia’s lifetime had gone into the grave with her. +His passion for her had occurred too far on in his manhood to leave fuel enough +on hand for another fire of that sort, as may happen with more boyish loves. +Even supposing him capable of loving again, that love would be a plant of slow +and laboured growth, and in the end only small and sickly, like an +autumn-hatched bird. +</p> + +<p> +He was so distressed by this new complexity that when the enthusiastic brass +band arrived and struck up, which it did about five o’clock, with +apparently wind enough among its members to blow down his house, he withdrew +from his rooms by the back door, went down the garden, through the gate in the +hedge, and away out of sight. He could not bear to remain in the presence of +enjoyment today, though he had tried hard. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing was seen of him for four hours. When he came back by the same path it +was dusk, and the dews were coating every green thing. The boisterous music had +ceased; but, entering the premises as he did from behind, he could not see if +the May party had all gone till he had passed through Thomasin’s division +of the house to the front door. Thomasin was standing within the porch alone. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him reproachfully. “You went away just when it began, +Clym,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I felt I could not join in. You went out with them, of +course?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I did not.” +</p> + +<p> +“You appeared to be dressed on purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I could not go out alone; so many people were there. One is +there now.” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright strained his eyes across the dark-green patch beyond the paling, and +near the black form of the Maypole he discerned a shadowy figure, sauntering +idly up and down. “Who is it?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Venn,” said Thomasin. +</p> + +<p> +“You might have asked him to come in, I think, Tamsie. He has been very +kind to you first and last.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will now,” she said; and, acting on the impulse, went through +the wicket to where Venn stood under the Maypole. +</p> + +<p> +“It is Mr. Venn, I think?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +Venn started as if he had not seen her—artful man that he was—and +said, “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that I—” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen you dancing this evening, and you had the very best of the +girls for your partners. Is it that you won’t come in because you wish to +stand here, and think over the past hours of enjoyment?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s partly it,” said Mr. Venn, with ostentatious +sentiment. “But the main reason why I am biding here like this is that I +want to wait till the moon rises.” +</p> + +<p> +“To see how pretty the Maypole looks in the moonlight?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. To look for a glove that was dropped by one of the maidens.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin was speechless with surprise. That a man who had to walk some four or +five miles to his home should wait here for such a reason pointed to only one +conclusion—the man must be amazingly interested in that glove’s +owner. +</p> + +<p> +“Were you dancing with her, Diggory?” she asked, in a voice which +revealed that he had made himself considerably more interesting to her by this +disclosure. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“And you will not come in, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not tonight, thank you, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I lend you a lantern to look for the young person’s glove, +Mr. Venn?” +</p> + +<p> +“O no; it is not necessary, Mrs. Wildeve, thank you. The moon will rise +in a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin went back to the porch. “Is he coming in?” said Clym, who +had been waiting where she had left him. +</p> + +<p> +“He would rather not tonight,” she said, and then passed by him +into the house; whereupon Clym too retired to his own rooms. +</p> + +<p> +When Clym was gone Thomasin crept upstairs in the dark, and, just listening by +the cot, to assure herself that the child was asleep, she went to the window, +gently lifted the corner of the white curtain, and looked out. Venn was still +there. She watched the growth of the faint radiance appearing in the sky by the +eastern hill, till presently the edge of the moon burst upwards and flooded the +valley with light. Diggory’s form was now distinct on the green; he was +moving about in a bowed attitude, evidently scanning the grass for the precious +missing article, walking in zigzags right and left till he should have passed +over every foot of the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“How very ridiculous!” Thomasin murmured to herself, in a tone +which was intended to be satirical. “To think that a man should be so +silly as to go mooning about like that for a girl’s glove! A respectable +dairyman, too, and a man of money as he is now. What a pity!” +</p> + +<p> +At last Venn appeared to find it; whereupon he stood up and raised it to his +lips. Then placing it in his breastpocket—the nearest receptacle to a +man’s heart permitted by modern raiment—he ascended the valley in a +mathematically direct line towards his distant home in the meadows. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap46"></a>II.<br /> +Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road</h2> + +<p> +Clym saw little of Thomasin for several days after this; and when they met she +was more silent than usual. At length he asked her what she was thinking of so +intently. +</p> + +<p> +“I am thoroughly perplexed,” she said candidly. “I cannot for +my life think who it is that Diggory Venn is so much in love with. None of the +girls at the Maypole were good enough for him, and yet she must have been +there.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym tried to imagine Venn’s choice for a moment; but ceasing to be +interested in the question he went on again with his gardening. +</p> + +<p> +No clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time. But one afternoon +Thomasin was upstairs getting ready for a walk, when she had occasion to come +to the landing and call “Rachel.” Rachel was a girl about thirteen, +who carried the baby out for airings; and she came upstairs at the call. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?” +inquired Thomasin. “It is the fellow to this one.” +</p> + +<p> +Rachel did not reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you answer?” said her mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is lost, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once.” +</p> + +<p> +Rachel appeared as one dreadfully troubled, and at last began to cry. +“Please, ma’am, on the day of the Maypole I had none to wear, and I +seed yours on the table, and I thought I would borrow ’em. I did not mean +to hurt ’em at all, but one of them got lost. Somebody gave me some money +to buy another pair for you, but I have not been able to go anywhere to get +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s somebody?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Venn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he know it was my glove?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I told him.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin was so surprised by the explanation that she quite forgot to lecture +the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not move further than to turn +her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole had stood. She remained +thinking, then said to herself that she would not go out that afternoon, but +would work hard at the baby’s unfinished lovely plaid frock, cut on the +cross in the newest fashion. How she managed to work hard, and yet do no more +than she had done at the end of two hours, would have been a mystery to anyone +not aware that the recent incident was of a kind likely to divert her industry +from a manual to a mental channel. +</p> + +<p> +Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of walking in the +heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now of the age when it is a +matter of doubt with such characters whether they are intended to walk through +the world on their hands or on their feet; so that they get into painful +complications by trying both. It was very pleasant to Thomasin, when she had +carried the child to some lonely place, to give her a little private practice +on the green turf and shepherd’s-thyme, which formed a soft mat to fall +headlong upon them when equilibrium was lost. +</p> + +<p> +Once, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to remove bits of +stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child’s path, that +the journey might not be brought to an untimely end by some insuperable barrier +a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed by discovering that a man on +horseback was almost close beside her, the soft natural carpet having muffled +the horse’s tread. The rider, who was Venn, waved his hat in the air and +bowed gallantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Diggory, give me my glove,” said Thomasin, whose manner it was +under any circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which engrossed +her. +</p> + +<p> +Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and handed the +glove. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of you to say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets so indifferent +that I was surprised to know you thought of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn’t have been +surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, no,” she said quickly. “But men of your character are +mostly so independent.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is my character?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t exactly know,” said Thomasin simply, “except +it is to cover up your feelings under a practical manner, and only to show them +when you are alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, how do you know that?” said Venn strategically. +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” said she, stopping to put the little girl, who had +managed to get herself upside down, right end up again, “because I +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mustn’t judge by folks in general,” said Venn. +“Still I don’t know much what feelings are nowadays. I have got so +mixed up with business of one sort and t’other that my soft sentiments +are gone off in vapour like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of +money. Money is all my dream.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Diggory, how wicked!” said Thomasin reproachfully, and looking +at him in exact balance between taking his words seriously and judging them as +said to tease her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ’tis rather a rum course,” said Venn, in the bland tone +of one comfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome. +</p> + +<p> +“You, who used to be so nice!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s an argument I rather like, because what a man has +once been he may be again.” Thomasin blushed. “Except that it is +rather harder now,” Venn continued. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you be richer than you were at that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no—not much. I have made it nearly all over to the baby, as it +was my duty to do, except just enough to live on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am rather glad of that,” said Venn softly, and regarding her +from the corner of his eye, “for it makes it easier for us to be +friendly.” +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of a not +unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on. +</p> + +<p> +This conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near the old Roman road, +a place much frequented by Thomasin. And it might have been observed that she +did not in future walk that way less often from having met Venn there now. +Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thither because he had met Thomasin +in the same place might easily have been guessed from her proceedings about two +months later in the same year. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap47"></a>III.<br /> +The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin</h2> + +<p> +Throughout this period Yeobright had more or less pondered on his duty to his +cousin Thomasin. He could not help feeling that it would be a pitiful waste of +sweet material if the tender-natured thing should be doomed from this early +stage of her life onwards to dribble away her winsome qualities on lonely gorse +and fern. But he felt this as an economist merely, and not as a lover. His +passion for Eustacia had been a sort of conserve of his whole life, and he had +nothing more of that supreme quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing +was not to entertain any idea of marriage with Thomasin, even to oblige her. +</p> + +<p> +But this was not all. Years ago there had been in his mother’s mind a +great fancy about Thomasin and himself. It had not positively amounted to a +desire, but it had always been a favourite dream. That they should be man and +wife in good time, if the happiness of neither were endangered thereby, was the +fancy in question. So that what course save one was there now left for any son +who reverenced his mother’s memory as Yeobright did? It is an unfortunate +fact that any particular whim of parents, which might have been dispersed by +half an hour’s conversation during their lives, becomes sublimated by +their deaths into a fiat the most absolute, with such results to conscientious +children as those parents, had they lived, would have been the first to decry. +</p> + +<p> +Had only Yeobright’s own future been involved he would have proposed to +Thomasin with a ready heart. He had nothing to lose by carrying out a dead +mother’s hope. But he dreaded to contemplate Thomasin wedded to the mere +corpse of a lover that he now felt himself to be. He had but three activities +alive in him. One was his almost daily walk to the little graveyard wherein his +mother lay; another, his just as frequent visits by night to the more distant +enclosure which numbered his Eustacia among its dead; the third was +self-preparation for a vocation which alone seemed likely to satisfy his +cravings—that of an itinerant preacher of the eleventh commandment. It +was difficult to believe that Thomasin would be cheered by a husband with such +tendencies as these. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he resolved to ask her, and let her decide for herself. It was even with a +pleasant sense of doing his duty that he went downstairs to her one evening for +this purpose, when the sun was printing on the valley the same long shadow of +the housetop that he had seen lying there times out of number while his mother +lived. +</p> + +<p> +Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the front garden. “I +have long been wanting, Thomasin,” he began, “to say something +about a matter that concerns both our futures.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are going to say it now?” she remarked quickly, colouring +as she met his gaze. “Do stop a minute, Clym, and let me speak first, for +oddly enough, I have been wanting to say something to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means say on, Tamsie.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose nobody can overhear us?” she went on, casting her eyes +around and lowering her voice. “Well, first you will promise me +this—that you won’t be angry and call me anything harsh if you +disagree with what I propose?” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright promised, and she continued: “What I want is your advice, for +you are my relation—I mean, a sort of guardian to me—aren’t +you, Clym?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am, of +course,” he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift. +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking of marrying,” she then observed blandly. “But +I shall not marry unless you assure me that you approve of such a step. Why +don’t you speak?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am very glad to +hear such news. I shall approve, of course, dear Tamsie. Who can it be? I am +quite at a loss to guess. No I am not—’tis the old +doctor!—not that I mean to call him old, for he is not very old after +all. Ah—I noticed when he attended you last time!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” she said hastily. “’Tis Mr. Venn.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym’s face suddenly became grave. +</p> + +<p> +“There, now, you don’t like him, and I wish I hadn’t +mentioned him!” she exclaimed almost petulantly. “And I +shouldn’t have done it, either, only he keeps on bothering me so till I +don’t know what to do!” +</p> + +<p> +Clym looked at the heath. “I like Venn well enough,” he answered at +last. “He is a very honest and at the same time astute man. He is clever +too, as is proved by his having got you to favour him. But really, Thomasin, he +is not quite—” +</p> + +<p> +“Gentleman enough for me? That is just what I feel. I am sorry now that I +asked you, and I won’t think any more of him. At the same time I must +marry him if I marry anybody—that I <i>will</i> say!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see that,” said Clym, carefully concealing every +clue to his own interrupted intention, which she plainly had not guessed. +“You might marry a professional man, or somebody of that sort, by going +into the town to live and forming acquaintances there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not fit for town life—so very rural and silly as I always +have been. Do not you yourself notice my countrified ways?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don’t +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s because you have got countrified too. O, I couldn’t +live in a street for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous old place; but I have got +used to it, and I couldn’t be happy anywhere else at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither could I,” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“Then how could you say that I should marry some town man? I am sure, say +what you will, that I must marry Diggory, if I marry at all. He has been kinder +to me than anybody else, and has helped me in many ways that I don’t know +of!” Thomasin almost pouted now. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he has,” said Clym in a neutral tone. “Well, I wish +with all my heart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget what my +mother thought on that matter, and it goes rather against me not to respect her +opinion. There is too much reason why we should do the little we can to respect +it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” sighed Thomasin. “I will say no +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“O no—I don’t want to be rebellious in that way,” she +said sadly. “I had no business to think of him—I ought to have +thought of my family. What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!” Her +lips trembled, and she turned away to hide a tear. +</p> + +<p> +Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in a measure +relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question in relation to himself +was shelved. Through several succeeding days he saw her at different times from +the window of his room moping disconsolately about the garden. He was half +angry with her for choosing Venn; then he was grieved at having put himself in +the way of Venn’s happiness, who was, after all, as honest and +persevering a young fellow as any on Egdon, since he had turned over a new +leaf. In short, Clym did not know what to do. +</p> + +<p> +When next they met she said abruptly, “He is much more respectable now +than he was then!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who? O yes—Diggory Venn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don’t know all the particulars of my +mother’s wish. So you had better use your own discretion.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will always feel that I slighted your mother’s memory.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I will not. I shall think you are convinced that, had she seen +Diggory in his present position, she would have considered him a fitting +husband for you. Now, that’s my real feeling. Don’t consult me any +more, but do as you like, Thomasin. I shall be content.” +</p> + +<p> +It is to be supposed that Thomasin was convinced; for a few days after this, +when Clym strayed into a part of the heath that he had not lately visited, +Humphrey, who was at work there, said to him, “I am glad to see that Mrs. +Wildeve and Venn have made it up again, seemingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have they?” said Clym abstractedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and he do contrive to stumble upon her whenever she walks out on +fine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright, I can’t help feeling that +your cousin ought to have married you. ’Tis a pity to make two +chimleycorners where there need be only one. You could get her away from him +now, ’tis my belief, if you were only to set about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I have the conscience to marry after having driven two women to +their deaths? Don’t think such a thing, Humphrey. After my experience I +should consider it too much of a burlesque to go to church and take a wife. In +the words of Job, ‘I have made a covenant with mine eyes; when then +should I think upon a maid?’” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Clym, don’t fancy that about driving two women to their +deaths. You shouldn’t say it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we’ll leave that out,” said Yeobright. “But +anyhow God has set a mark upon me which wouldn’t look well in a +love-making scene. I have two ideas in my head, and no others. I am going to +keep a night-school; and I am going to turn preacher. What have you got to say +to that, Humphrey?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll come and hear ’ee with all my heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks. ’Tis all I wish.” +</p> + +<p> +As Clym descended into the valley Thomasin came down by the other path, and met +him at the gate. “What do you think I have to tell you, Clym?” she +said, looking archly over her shoulder at him. +</p> + +<p> +“I can guess,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +She scrutinized his face. “Yes, you guess right. It is going to be after +all. He thinks I may as well make up my mind, and I have got to think so too. +It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you don’t +object.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you see your way +clear to happiness again. My sex owes you every amends for the treatment you +received in days gone by.”<a href="#fn-2" name="fnref-2" id="fnref-2">*</a> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-2" id="fn-2"></a> <a href="#fnref-2">[*]</a> +The writer may state here that the original conception of the story did not +design a marriage between Thomasin and Venn. He was to have retained his +isolated and weird character to the last, and to have disappeared mysteriously +from the heath, nobody knowing whither—Thomasin remaining a widow. But +certain circumstances of serial publication led to a change of intent.<br /> + Readers can therefore choose between the endings, and those with an austere +artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion to be the true one. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap48"></a>IV.<br /> +Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His Vocation</h2> + +<p> +Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven o’clock on the +morning fixed for the wedding would have found that, while Yeobright’s +house was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great activity came from the +dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway. It was chiefly a noise of +feet, briskly crunching hither and thither over the sanded floor within. One +man only was visible outside, and he seemed to be later at an appointment than +he had intended to be, for he hastened up to the door, lifted the latch, and +walked in without ceremony. +</p> + +<p> +The scene within was not quite the customary one. Standing about the room was +the little knot of men who formed the chief part of the Egdon coterie, there +being present Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle, Humphrey, Christian, and one or +two turf-cutters. It was a warm day, and the men were as a matter of course in +their shirtsleeves, except Christian, who had always a nervous fear of parting +with a scrap of his clothing when in anybody’s house but his own. Across +the stout oak table in the middle of the room was thrown a mass of striped +linen, which Grandfer Cantle held down on one side, and Humphrey on the other, +while Fairway rubbed its surface with a yellow lump, his face being damp and +creased with the effort of the labour. +</p> + +<p> +“Waxing a bed-tick, souls?” said the newcomer. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sam,” said Grandfer Cantle, as a man too busy to waste words. +“Shall I stretch this corner a shade tighter, Timothy?” +</p> + +<p> +Fairway replied, and the waxing went on with unabated vigour. “’Tis +going to be a good bed, by the look o’t,” continued Sam, after an +interval of silence. “Who may it be for?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a present for the new folks that’s going to set up +housekeeping,” said Christian, who stood helpless and overcome by the +majesty of the proceedings. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, to be sure; and a valuable one, ’a b’lieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beds be dear to fokes that don’t keep geese, bain’t they, +Mister Fairway?” said Christian, as to an omniscient being. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the furze-dealer, standing up, giving his forehead a +thorough mopping, and handing the beeswax to Humphrey, who succeeded at the +rubbing forthwith. “Not that this couple be in want of one, but +’twas well to show ’em a bit of friendliness at this great +racketing vagary of their lives. I set up both my own daughters in one when +they was married, and there have been feathers enough for another in the house +the last twelve months. Now then, neighbours, I think we have laid on enough +wax. Grandfer Cantle, you turn the tick the right way outwards, and then +I’ll begin to shake in the feathers.” +</p> + +<p> +When the bed was in proper trim Fairway and Christian brought forward vast +paper bags, stuffed to the full, but light as balloons, and began to turn the +contents of each into the receptacle just prepared. As bag after bag was +emptied, airy tufts of down and feathers floated about the room in increasing +quantity till, through a mishap of Christian’s, who shook the contents of +one bag outside the tick, the atmosphere of the room became dense with gigantic +flakes, which descended upon the workers like a windless snowstorm. +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw such a clumsy chap as you, Christian,” said Grandfer +Cantle severely. “You might have been the son of a man that’s never +been outside Blooms-End in his life for all the wit you have. Really all the +soldiering and smartness in the world in the father seems to count for nothing +in forming the nater of the son. As far as that chief Christian is concerned I +might as well have stayed at home and seed nothing, like all the rest of ye +here. Though, as far as myself is concerned, a dashing spirit has counted for +sommat, to be sure!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ye let me down so, Father; I feel no bigger than a ninepin +after it. I’ve made but a bruckle hit, I’m afeard.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come. Never pitch yerself in such a low key as that, Christian; +you should try more,” said Fairway. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you should try more,” echoed the Grandfer with insistence, as +if he had been the first to make the suggestion. “In common conscience +every man ought either to marry or go for a soldier. ’Tis a scandal to +the nation to do neither one nor t’other. I did both, thank God! Neither +to raise men nor to lay ’em low—that shows a poor do-nothing spirit +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never had the nerve to stand fire,” faltered Christian. +“But as to marrying, I own I’ve asked here and there, though +without much fruit from it. Yes, there’s some house or other that might +have had a man for a master—such as he is—that’s now ruled by +a woman alone. Still it might have been awkward if I had found her; for, +d’ye see, neighbours, there’d have been nobody left at home to keep +down Father’s spirits to the decent pitch that becomes a old man.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve your work cut out to do that, my son,” said +Grandfer Cantle smartly. “I wish that the dread of infirmities was not so +strong in me!—I’d start the very first thing tomorrow to see the +world over again! But seventy-one, though nothing at home, is a high figure for +a rover.... Ay, seventy-one, last Candlemasday. Gad, I’d sooner have it +in guineas than in years!” And the old man sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you be mournful, Grandfer,” said Fairway. “Empt +some more feathers into the bed-tick, and keep up yer heart. Though rather lean +in the stalks you be a green-leaved old man still. There’s time enough +left to ye yet to fill whole chronicles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Begad, I’ll go to ’em, Timothy—to the married +pair!” said Granfer Cantle in an encouraged voice, and starting round +briskly. “I’ll go to ’em tonight and sing a wedding song, +hey? ’Tis like me to do so, you know; and they’d see it as such. My +‘Down in Cupid’s Gardens’ was well liked in four; still, +I’ve got others as good, and even better. What do you say to my +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +She cal′-led to′ her love′<br /> +From the lat′-tice a-bove,<br /> +′O come in′ from the fog-gy fog′-gy dew′. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +’Twould please ’em well at such a time! Really, now I come to think +of it, I haven’t turned my tongue in my head to the shape of a real good +song since Old Midsummer night, when we had the ‘Barley Mow’ at the +Woman; and ’tis a pity to neglect your strong point where there’s +few that have the compass for such things!” +</p> + +<p> +“So ’tis, so ’tis,” said Fairway. “Now gie the +bed a shake down. We’ve put in seventy pounds of best feathers, and I +think that’s as many as the tick will fairly hold. A bit and a drap +wouldn’t be amiss now, I reckon. Christian, maul down the victuals from +corner-cupboard if canst reach, man, and I’ll draw a drap o’ sommat +to wet it with.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down to a lunch in the midst of their work, feathers around, above, +and below them; the original owners of which occasionally came to the open door +and cackled begrudgingly at sight of such a quantity of their old clothes. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my soul I shall be chokt,” said Fairway when, having +extracted a feather from his mouth, he found several others floating on the mug +as it was handed round. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve swallered several; and one had a tolerable quill,” said +Sam placidly from the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo—what’s that—wheels I hear coming?” +Grandfer Cantle exclaimed, jumping up and hastening to the door. “Why, +’tis they back again—I didn’t expect ’em yet this +half-hour. To be sure, how quick marrying can be done when you are in the mind +for’t!” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, it can soon be <i>done</i>,” said Fairway, as if something +should be added to make the statement complete. +</p> + +<p> +He arose and followed the Grandfer, and the rest also went to the door. In a +moment an open fly was driven past, in which sat Venn and Mrs. Venn, Yeobright, +and a grand relative of Venn’s who had come from Budmouth for the +occasion. The fly had been hired at the nearest town, regardless of distance +and cost, there being nothing on Egdon Heath, in Venn’s opinion, +dignified enough for such an event when such a woman as Thomasin was the bride; +and the church was too remote for a walking bridal-party. +</p> + +<p> +As the fly passed the group which had run out from the homestead they shouted +“Hurrah!” and waved their hands; feathers and down floating from +their hair, their sleeves, and the folds of their garments at every motion, and +Grandfer Cantle’s seals dancing merrily in the sunlight as he twirled +himself about. The driver of the fly turned a supercilious gaze upon them; he +even treated the wedded pair themselves with something like condescension; for +in what other state than heathen could people, rich or poor, exist who were +doomed to abide in such a world’s end as Egdon? Thomasin showed no such +superiority to the group at the door, fluttering her hand as quickly as a +bird’s wing towards them, and asking Diggory, with tears in her eyes, if +they ought not to alight and speak to these kind neighbours. Venn, however, +suggested that, as they were all coming to the house in the evening, this was +hardly necessary. +</p> + +<p> +After this excitement the saluting party returned to their occupation, and the +stuffing and sewing were soon afterwards finished, when Fairway harnessed a +horse, wrapped up the cumbrous present, and drove off with it in the cart to +Venn’s house at Stickleford. +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright, having filled the office at the wedding service which naturally fell +to his hands, and afterwards returned to the house with the husband and wife, +was indisposed to take part in the feasting and dancing that wound up the +evening. Thomasin was disappointed. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits,” he said. +“But I might be too much like the skull at the banquet.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear, apart from that, if you would excuse me, I should be glad. I +know it seems unkind; but, dear Thomasin, I fear I should not be happy in the +company—there, that’s the truth of it. I shall always be coming to +see you at your new home, you know, so that my absence now will not +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I give in. Do whatever will be most comfortable to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Clym retired to his lodging at the housetop much relieved, and occupied himself +during the afternoon in noting down the heads of a sermon, with which he +intended to initiate all that really seemed practicable of the scheme that had +originally brought him hither, and that he had so long kept in view under +various modifications, and through evil and good report. He had tested and +weighed his convictions again and again, and saw no reason to alter them, +though he had considerably lessened his plan. His eyesight, by long humouring +in his native air, had grown stronger, but not sufficiently strong to warrant +his attempting his extensive educational project. Yet he did not +repine—there was still more than enough of an unambitious sort to tax all +his energies and occupy all his hours. +</p> + +<p> +Evening drew on, and sounds of life and movement in the lower part of the +domicile became more pronounced, the gate in the palings clicking incessantly. +The party was to be an early one, and all the guests were assembled long before +it was dark. Yeobright went down the back staircase and into the heath by +another path than that in front, intending to walk in the open air till the +party was over, when he would return to wish Thomasin and her husband good-bye +as they departed. His steps were insensibly bent towards Mistover by the path +that he had followed on that terrible morning when he learnt the strange news +from Susan’s boy. +</p> + +<p> +He did not turn aside to the cottage, but pushed on to an eminence, whence he +could see over the whole quarter that had once been Eustacia’s home. +While he stood observing the darkening scene somebody came up. Clym, seeing him +but dimly, would have let him pass silently, had not the pedestrian, who was +Charley, recognized the young man and spoken to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Charley, I have not seen you for a length of time,” said +Yeobright. “Do you often walk this way?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” the lad replied. “I don’t often come outside the +bank.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were not at the Maypole.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Charley, in the same listless tone. “I don’t +care for that sort of thing now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You rather liked Miss Eustacia, didn’t you?” Yeobright +gently asked. Eustacia had frequently told him of Charley’s romantic +attachment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, very much. Ah, I wish—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish, Mr. Yeobright, you could give me something to keep that once +belonged to her—if you don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be very happy to. It will give me very great pleasure, Charley. +Let me think what I have of hers that you would like. But come with me to the +house, and I’ll see.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked towards Blooms-End together. When they reached the front it was +dark, and the shutters were closed, so that nothing of the interior could be +seen. +</p> + +<p> +“Come round this way,” said Clym. “My entrance is at the back +for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +The two went round and ascended the crooked stair in darkness till Clym’s +sitting-room on the upper floor was reached, where he lit a candle, Charley +entering gently behind. Yeobright searched his desk, and taking out a sheet of +tissue-paper unfolded from it two or three undulating locks of raven hair, +which fell over the paper like black streams. From these he selected one, +wrapped it up, and gave it to the lad, whose eyes had filled with tears. He +kissed the packet, put it in his pocket, and said in a voice of emotion, +“O, Mr. Clym, how good you are to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go a little way with you,” said Clym. And amid the noise of +merriment from below they descended. Their path to the front led them close to +a little side window, whence the rays of candles streamed across the shrubs. +The window, being screened from general observation by the bushes, had been +left unblinded, so that a person in this private nook could see all that was +going on within the room which contained the wedding guests, except in so far +as vision was hindered by the green antiquity of the panes. +</p> + +<p> +“Charley, what are they doing?” said Clym. “My sight is +weaker again tonight, and the glass of this window is not good.” +</p> + +<p> +Charley wiped his own eyes, which were rather blurred with moisture, and +stepped closer to the casement. “Mr. Venn is asking Christian Cantle to +sing,” he replied, “and Christian is moving about in his chair as +if he were much frightened at the question, and his father has struck up a +stave instead of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I can hear the old man’s voice,” said Clym. “So +there’s to be no dancing, I suppose. And is Thomasin in the room? I see +something moving in front of the candles that resembles her shape, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. She do seem happy. She is red in the face, and laughing at +something Fairway has said to her. O my!” +</p> + +<p> +“What noise was that?” said Clym. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Venn is so tall that he knocked his head against the beam in gieing +a skip as he passed under. Mrs. Venn has run up quite frightened and now +she’s put her hand to his head to feel if there’s a lump. And now +they be all laughing again as if nothing had happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do any of them seem to care about my not being there?” Clym asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not a bit in the world. Now they are all holding up their glasses +and drinking somebody’s health.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if it is mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ’tis Mr. and Mrs. Venn’s, because he is making a hearty +sort of speech. There—now Mrs. Venn has got up, and is going away to put +on her things, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they haven’t concerned themselves about me, and it is quite +right they should not. It is all as it should be, and Thomasin at least is +happy. We will not stay any longer now, as they will soon be coming out to go +home.” +</p> + +<p> +He accompanied the lad into the heath on his way home, and, returning alone to +the house a quarter of an hour later, found Venn and Thomasin ready to start, +all the guests having departed in his absence. The wedded pair took their seats +in the four-wheeled dogcart which Venn’s head milker and handy man had +driven from Stickleford to fetch them in; little Eustacia and the nurse were +packed securely upon the open flap behind; and the milker, on an ancient +overstepping pony, whose shoes clashed like cymbals at every tread, rode in the +rear, in the manner of a body-servant of the last century. +</p> + +<p> +“Now we leave you in absolute possession of your own house again,” +said Thomasin as she bent down to wish her cousin good night. “It will be +rather lonely for you, Clym, after the hubbub we have been making.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, that’s no inconvenience,” said Clym, smiling rather +sadly. And then the party drove off and vanished in the night shades, and +Yeobright entered the house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound that +greeted him, for not a soul remained; Christian, who acted as cook, valet, and +gardener to Clym, sleeping at his father’s house. Yeobright sat down in +one of the vacant chairs, and remained in thought a long time. His +mother’s old chair was opposite; it had been sat in that evening by those +who had scarcely remembered that it ever was hers. But to Clym she was almost a +presence there, now as always. Whatever she was in other people’s +memories, in his she was the sublime saint whose radiance even his tenderness +for Eustacia could not obscure. But his heart was heavy, that Mother had +<i>not</i> crowned him in the day of his espousals and in the day of the +gladness of his heart. And events had borne out the accuracy of her judgment, +and proved the devotedness of her care. He should have heeded her for +Eustacia’s sake even more than for his own. “It was all my +fault,” he whispered. “O, my mother, my mother! would to God that I +could live my life again, and endure for you what you endured for me!” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +On the Sunday after this wedding an unusual sight was to be seen on Rainbarrow. +From a distance there simply appeared to be a motionless figure standing on the +top of the tumulus, just as Eustacia had stood on that lonely summit some two +years and a half before. But now it was fine warm weather, with only a summer +breeze blowing, and early afternoon instead of dull twilight. Those who +ascended to the immediate neighbourhood of the Barrow perceived that the erect +form in the centre, piercing the sky, was not really alone. Round him upon the +slopes of the Barrow a number of heathmen and women were reclining or sitting +at their ease. They listened to the words of the man in their midst, who was +preaching, while they abstractedly pulled heather, stripped ferns, or tossed +pebbles down the slope. This was the first of a series of moral lectures or +Sermons on the Mount, which were to be delivered from the same place every +Sunday afternoon as long as the fine weather lasted. +</p> + +<p> +The commanding elevation of Rainbarrow had been chosen for two reasons: first, +that it occupied a central position among the remote cottages around; secondly, +that the preacher thereon could be seen from all adjacent points as soon as he +arrived at his post, the view of him being thus a convenient signal to those +stragglers who wished to draw near. The speaker was bareheaded, and the breeze +at each waft gently lifted and lowered his hair, somewhat too thin for a man of +his years, these still numbering less than thirty-three. He wore a shade over +his eyes, and his face was pensive and lined; but, though these bodily features +were marked with decay there was no defect in the tones of his voice, which +were rich, musical, and stirring. He stated that his discourses to people were +to be sometimes secular, and sometimes religious, but never dogmatic; and that +his texts would be taken from all kinds of books. This afternoon the words were +as follows:— +</p> + +<p> +“‘And the king rose up to meet her, and bowed himself unto her, and +sat down on his throne, and caused a seat to be set for the king’s +mother; and she sat on his right hand. Then she said, I desire one small +petition of thee; I pray thee say me not nay. And the king said unto her, Ask, +on, my mother: for I will not say thee nay.’” +</p> + +<p> +Yeobright had, in fact, found his vocation in the career of an itinerant +open-air preacher and lecturer on morally unimpeachable subjects; and from this +day he laboured incessantly in that office, speaking not only in simple +language on Rainbarrow and in the hamlets round, but in a more cultivated +strain elsewhere—from the steps and porticoes of town halls, from +market-crosses, from conduits, on esplanades and on wharves, from the parapets +of bridges, in barns and outhouses, and all other such places in the +neighbouring Wessex towns and villages. He left alone creeds and systems of +philosophy, finding enough and more than enough to occupy his tongue in the +opinions and actions common to all good men. Some believed him, and some +believed not; some said that his words were commonplace, others complained of +his want of theological doctrine; while others again remarked that it was well +enough for a man to take to preaching who could not see to do anything else. +But everywhere he was kindly received, for the story of his life had become +generally known. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 122-h.htm or 122-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/122/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/old/122-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/122-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..707ec2d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/122-h/images/cover.jpg |
