diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/122-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/122-0.txt | 17092 |
1 files changed, 17092 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/122-0.txt b/old/122-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b833463 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/122-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17092 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Return of the Native, by Thomas Hardy + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Return of the Native + +Author: Thomas Hardy + +Release Date: April, 1994 [eBook #122] +[Most recently updated: January 21, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: John Hamm and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Return of the Native + +by Thomas Hardy + + +Contents + + PREFACE + BOOK FIRST—THE THREE WOMEN + I. A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression + II. Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble + III. The Custom of the Country + IV. The Halt on the Turnpike Road + V. Perplexity among Honest People + VI. The Figure against the Sky + VII. Queen of Night + VIII. Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody + IX. Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy + X. A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion + XI. The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman + + BOOK SECOND—THE ARRIVAL + I. Tidings of the Comer + II. The People at Blooms-End Make Ready + III. How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream + IV. Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure + V. Through the Moonlight + VI. The Two Stand Face to Face + VII. A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness + VIII. Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart + + BOOK THIRD—THE FASCINATION + I. “My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is” + II. The New Course Causes Disappointment + III. The First Act in a Timeworn Drama + IV. An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness + V. Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues + VI. Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete + VII. The Morning and the Evening of a Day + VIII. A New Force Disturbs the Current + + BOOK FOURTH—THE CLOSED DOOR + I. The Rencounter by the Pool + II. He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song + III. She Goes Out to Battle against Depression + IV. Rough Coercion Is Employed + V. The Journey across the Heath + VI. A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian + VII. The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends + VIII. Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil + + BOOK FIFTH—THE DISCOVERY + I. “Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery” + II. A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding + III. Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning + IV. The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One + V. An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated + VI. Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter + VII. The Night of the Sixth of November + VIII. Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers + IX. Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together + + BOOK SIXTH—AFTERCOURSES + I. The Inevitable Movement Onward + II. Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road + III. The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin + IV. Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His Vocation + + + + + “To sorrow + I bade good morrow, +And thought to leave her far away behind; + But cheerly, cheerly, + She loves me dearly; +She is so constant to me, and so kind. + I would deceive her, + And so leave her, +But ah! she is so constant and so kind.” + + + + +PREFACE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +T.H. + +_July_, 1895. + + + + +BOOK FIRST—THE THREE WOMEN + + + + +I. +A Face on Which Time Makes but Little Impression + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +II. +Humanity Appears upon the Scene, Hand in Hand with Trouble + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“Yes.” + +“Somebody who wants looking after?” + +“Yes.” + +Not long after this a faint cry sounded from the interior. The +reddleman hastened to the back, looked in, and came away again. + +“You have a child there, my man?” + +“No, sir, I have a woman.” + +“The deuce you have! Why did she cry out?” + +“Oh, she has fallen asleep, and not being used to traveling, she’s +uneasy, and keeps dreaming.” + +“A young woman?” + +“Yes, a young woman.” + +“That would have interested me forty years ago. Perhaps she’s your +wife?” + +“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.” + +“That’s true. And there’s no reason why you should not. What harm can I +do to you or to her?” + +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.” + +“Where, may I ask?” + +“At Anglebury.” + +“I know the town well. What was she doing there?” + +“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.” + +“A nice-looking girl, no doubt?” + +“You would say so.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“Who is she? One of the neighbourhood?” + +“’Tis no matter who, excuse me.” + +“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.” + +“’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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +III. +The Custom of the Country + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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— + +“The king′ call’d down′ his no-bles all′, +By one′, by two′, by three′; +Earl Mar′-shal, I’ll′ go shrive′-the queen′, +And thou′ shalt wend′ with me′. + +“A boon′, a boon′, quoth Earl′ Mar-shal′, +And fell′ on his bend′-ded knee′, +That what′-so-e’er′ the queen′ shall say′, +No harm′ there-of′ may be′.” + + +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. + +“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?” + +“Hey?” said Grandfer Cantle, stopping in his dance. + +“Dostn’t wish wast young again, I say? There’s a hole in thy poor +bellows nowadays seemingly.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I heard that they were coming home tonight. By this time they must +have come. What besides?” + +“The next thing is for us to go and wish ’em joy, I suppose?” + +“Well, no.” + +“No? Now, I thought we must. I must, or ’twould be very unlike me—the +first in every spree that’s going! + +“Do thou′ put on′ a fri′-ar’s coat′, +And I’ll′ put on′ a-no′-ther, +And we′ will to′ Queen Ele′anor go′, +Like Fri′ar and′ his bro′ther. + + +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?” + +“I rather think she had you,” said Fairway. + +“No,” said Grandfer Cantle, his countenance slightly flagging. “’Tisn’t +so bad as that with me?” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Yes, how long?” said Grandfer Cantle smartly, likewise turning to +Humphrey. “I ask that question.” + +“Ever since her aunt altered her mind, and said she might have the man +after all,” replied Humphrey, without removing his eyes from the fire. +He was a somewhat solemn young fellow, and carried the hook and leather +gloves of a furze-cutter, his legs, by reason of that occupation, being +sheathed in bulging leggings as stiff as the Philistine’s greaves of +brass. “That’s why they went away to be married, I count. You see, +after kicking up such a nunny-watch and forbidding the banns ’twould +have made Mis’ess Yeobright seem foolish-like to have a banging wedding +in the same parish all as if she’d never gainsaid it.” + +“Exactly—seem foolish-like; and that’s very bad for the poor things +that be so, though I only guess as much, to be sure,” said Grandfer +Cantle, still strenuously preserving a sensible bearing and mien. + +“Ah, well, I was at church that day,” said Fairway, “which was a very +curious thing to happen.” + +“If ’twasn’t my name’s Simple,” said the Grandfer emphatically. “I +ha’n’t been there to-year; and now the winter is a-coming on I won’t +say I shall.” + +“I ha’n’t been these three years,” said Humphrey; “for I’m so dead +sleepy of a Sunday; and ’tis so terrible far to get there; and when you +do get there ’tis such a mortal poor chance that you’ll be chose for up +above, when so many bain’t, that I bide at home and don’t go at all.” + +“I not only happened to be there,” said Fairway, with a fresh +collection of emphasis, “but I was sitting in the same pew as Mis’ess +Yeobright. And though you may not see it as such, it fairly made my +blood run cold to hear her. Yes, it is a curious thing; but it made my +blood run cold, for I was close at her elbow.” The speaker looked round +upon the bystanders, now drawing closer to hear him, with his lips +gathered tighter than ever in the rigorousness of his descriptive +moderation. + +“’Tis a serious job to have things happen to ’ee there,” said a woman +behind. + +“‘Ye are to declare it,’ was the parson’s words,” Fairway continued. +“And then up stood a woman at my side—a-touching of me. ‘Well, be +damned if there isn’t Mis’ess Yeobright a-standing up,’ I said to +myself. Yes, neighbours, though I was in the temple of prayer that’s +what I said. ’Tis against my conscience to curse and swear in company, +and I hope any woman here will overlook it. Still what I did say I did +say, and ’twould be a lie if I didn’t own it.” + +“So ’twould, neighbour Fairway.” + +“‘Be damned if there isn’t Mis’ess Yeobright a-standing up,’ I said,” +the narrator repeated, giving out the bad word with the same +passionless severity of face as before, which proved how entirely +necessity and not gusto had to do with the iteration. “And the next +thing I heard was, ‘I forbid the banns,’ from her. ‘I’ll speak to you +after the service,’ said the parson, in quite a homely way—yes, turning +all at once into a common man no holier than you or I. Ah, her face was +pale! Maybe you can call to mind that monument in Weatherbury +church—the cross-legged soldier that have had his arm knocked away by +the schoolchildren? Well, he would about have matched that woman’s +face, when she said, ‘I forbid the banns.’” + +The audience cleared their throats and tossed a few stalks into the +fire, not because these deeds were urgent, but to give themselves time +to weigh the moral of the story. + +“I’m sure when I heard they’d been forbid I felt as glad as if anybody +had gied me sixpence,” said an earnest voice—that of Olly Dowden, a +woman who lived by making heath brooms, or besoms. Her nature was to be +civil to enemies as well as to friends, and grateful to all the world +for letting her remain alive. + +“And now the maid have married him just the same,” said Humphrey. + +“After that Mis’ess Yeobright came round and was quite agreeable,” +Fairway resumed, with an unheeding air, to show that his words were no +appendage to Humphrey’s, but the result of independent reflection. + +“Supposing they were ashamed, I don’t see why they shouldn’t have done +it here-right,” said a wide-spread woman whose stays creaked like shoes +whenever she stooped or turned. “’Tis well to call the neighbours +together and to hae a good racket once now and then; and it may as well +be when there’s a wedding as at tide-times. I don’t care for close +ways.” + +“Ah, now, you’d hardly believe it, but I don’t care for gay weddings,” +said Timothy Fairway, his eyes again travelling round. “I hardly blame +Thomasin Yeobright and neighbour Wildeve for 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Nine folks out of ten would own ’twas going too far to dance then, I +suppose?” suggested Grandfer Cantle. + +“’Tis the only sort of party a staid man can feel safe at after the mug +have been round a few times.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“True—’tis amazing what a polish the world have been brought to,” said +Humphrey. + +“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?” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +“A hundred maidens would have had him if he’d asked ’em,” said the wide +woman. + +“Didst ever know a man, neighbour, that no woman at all would marry?” +inquired Humphrey. + +“I never did,” said the turf-cutter. + +“Nor I,” said another. + +“Nor I,” said Grandfer Cantle. + +“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. + +“And what ghastly gallicrow might the poor fellow have been like, +Master Fairway?” asked the turf-cutter. + +“Well, ’a was neither a deaf man, nor a dumb man, nor a blind man. What +’a was I don’t say.” + +“Is he known in these parts?” said Olly Dowden. + +“Hardly,” said Timothy; “but I name no name.... Come, keep the fire up +there, youngsters.” + +“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?” + +A thin jibbering voice was heard to reply, “No, not at all.” + +“Come forward, Christian, and show yourself. I didn’t know you were +here,” said Fairway, with a humane look across towards that quarter. + +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. + +“What be ye quaking for, Christian?” said the turf-cutter kindly. + +“I’m the man.” + +“What man?” + +“The man no woman will marry.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“’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. + +“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?” + +“I’ve asked ’em.” + +“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?” + +“‘Get out of my sight, you slack-twisted, slim-looking maphrotight +fool,’ was the woman’s words to me.” + +“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?” + +“Thirty-one last tatie-digging, Mister Fairway.” + +“Not a boy—not a boy. Still there’s hope yet.” + +“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.” + +“Ah!” + +“But she couldn’t tell when, to save her life, except that there was no +moon.” + +“No moon—that’s bad. Hey, neighbours, that’s bad for him!” + +“Yes, ’tis bad,” said Grandfer Cantle, shaking his head. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I suppose the moon was terrible full when you were born?” said +Christian, with a look of hopeless admiration at Fairway. + +“Well, ’a was not new,” Mr. Fairway replied, with a disinterested gaze. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, there’s many just as bad as he.” said Fairway. + +“Wethers must live their time as well as other sheep, poor soul.” + +“So perhaps I shall rub on? Ought I to be afeared o’ nights, Master +Fairway?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What was it like?—no, don’t—” + +“A red one. Yes, most ghosts be white; but this is as if it had been +dipped in blood.” + +Christian drew a deep breath without letting it expand his body, and +Humphrey said, “Where has it been seen?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Grandfer Cantle! you take things very careless for an old man,” said +the wide woman. + +“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. + +“The king′ look’d o′-ver his left′ shoul-der′, +And a grim′ look look′-ed hee′, +Earl Mar′-shal, he said′, but for′ my oath′ +Or hang′-ed thou′ shouldst bee′.” + + +“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.” + +“Perhaps he’s coming to bide with his mother a little time, as she must +feel lonely now the maid’s gone.” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I can throw a stone there,” said the boy. + +“And so can I!” said Grandfer Cantle. + +“No, no, you can’t, my sonnies. That fire is not much less than a mile +off, for all that ’a seems so near.” + +“’Tis in the heath, but no furze,” said the turf-cutter. + +“’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.” + +“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.” + +“And he would hardly afford good fuel like that,” said the wide woman. + +“Then it must be his granddaughter,” said Fairway. “Not that a body of +her age can want a fire much.” + +“She is very strange in her ways, living up there by herself, and such +things please her,” said Susan. + +“She’s a well-favoured maid enough,” said Humphrey the furze-cutter, +“especially when she’s got one of her dandy gowns on.” + +“That’s true,” said Fairway. “Well, let her bonfire burn an’t will. +Ours is well-nigh out by the look o’t.” + +“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?” + +“Only the wind,” said the turf-cutter. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +“What was that?” said one of the lads, stopping. + +“Ah—where?” said Christian, hastily closing up to the rest. + +The dancers all lessened their speed. + +“’Twas behind you, Christian, that I heard it—down here.” + +“Yes—’tis behind me!” Christian said. “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, +bless the bed that I lie on; four angels guard—” + +“Hold your tongue. What is it?” said Fairway. + +“Hoi-i-i-i!” cried a voice from the darkness. + +“Halloo-o-o-o!” said Fairway. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Scrape up a few stray locks of furze, and make a blaze, so that we can +see who the man is,” said Fairway. + +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. + +“Ay—keep along the path down there.” + +“I mean a way two horses and a van can travel over?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It gied me a turn likewise,” said Susan Nunsuch, “for I had a dream +last night of a death’s head.” + +“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.” + +“Well, thank you for telling me,” said the young reddleman, smiling +faintly. “And good night t’ye all.” + +He withdrew from their sight down the barrow. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Why, ’tis Mis’ess Yeobright,” said Fairway. “Mis’ess Yeobright, not +ten minutes ago a man was here asking for you—a reddleman.” + +“What did he want?” said she. + +“He didn’t tell us.” + +“Something to sell, I suppose; what it can be I am at a loss to +understand.” + +“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!” + +“Yes. I believe he is coming,” she said. + +“He must be a fine fellow by this time,” said Fairway. + +“He is a man now,” she replied quietly. + +“’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.” + +“Is that you, Christian?” said Mrs. Yeobright. “What made you hide away +from me?” + +“’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.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“’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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Ay, sure, ma’am, I’m just thinking of moving,” said Olly. + +“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.” + +“Thank you indeed,” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“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.” + +“Very well—are you ready, Olly?” + +“Yes, ma’am. And there’s a light shining from your niece’s window, see. +It will help to keep us in the path.” + +She indicated the faint light at the bottom of the valley which Fairway +had pointed out; and the two women descended the tumulus. + + + + +IV. +The Halt on the Turnpike Road + + +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. + +“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. + +Mrs. Yeobright answered slowly, “Yes; at last.” + +“How you will miss her—living with ’ee as a daughter, as she always +have.” + +“I do miss her.” + +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. + +“I was quite strook to hear you’d agreed to it, ma’am, that I was,” +continued the besom-maker. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I saw that, upon the whole, it would be better she should marry where +she wished.” + +“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.” + +“It cannot,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “See, here’s the wagon-track at last. +Now we shall get along better.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“You don’t know me, ma’am, I suppose?” he said. + +“I do not,” said she. “Why, yes, I do! You are young Venn—your father +was a dairyman somewhere here?” + +“Yes; and I knew your niece, Miss Tamsin, a little. I have something +bad to tell you.” + +“About her—no! She has just come home, I believe, with her husband. +They arranged to return this afternoon—to the inn beyond here.” + +“She’s not there.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Because she’s here. She’s in my van,” he added slowly. + +“What new trouble has come?” murmured Mrs. Yeobright, putting her hand +over her eyes. + +“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.’” + +“How did she know your Christian name?” said Mrs. Yeobright doubtingly. + +“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.” + +“Let me see her at once,” said Mrs. Yeobright, hastening towards the +van. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +“Tamsin, Tamsin!” said Mrs. Yeobright, stooping over the young woman +and kissing her. “O my dear girl!” + +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. + +“I did not expect to see you in this state, any more than you me,” she +went on quickly. “Where am I, Aunt?” + +“Nearly home, my dear. In Egdon Bottom. What dreadful thing is it?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Why should you think it necessary to ask me? I will, of course,” said +he. + +“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.” + +The man regarded her with tender reluctance, but stopped them + +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?” + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“Now, Thomasin,” she said sternly, “what’s the meaning of this +disgraceful performance?” + + + + +V. +Perplexity among Honest People + + +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.” + +“Me? Think of yourself first.” + +“It was nobody’s fault. When we got there the parson wouldn’t marry us +because of some trifling irregularity in the license.” + +“What irregularity?” + +“I don’t know. Mr. Wildeve can explain. I did not think when I went +away this morning that I should come back like this.” It being dark, +Thomasin allowed her emotion to escape her by the silent way of tears, +which could roll down her cheek unseen. + +“I could almost say that it serves you right—if I did not feel that you +don’t deserve it,” continued Mrs. Yeobright, who, possessing two +distinct moods in close contiguity, a gentle mood and an angry, flew +from one to the other without the least warning. “Remember, Thomasin, +this business was none of my seeking; from the very first, when you +began to feel foolish about that man, I warned you he would not make +you happy. I felt it so strongly that I did what I would never have +believed myself capable of doing—stood up in the church, and made +myself the public talk for weeks. But having once consented, I don’t +submit to these fancies without good reason. Marry him you must after +this.” + +“Do you think I wish to do otherwise for one moment?” said Thomasin, +with a heavy sigh. “I know how wrong it was of me to love him, but +don’t pain me by talking like that, Aunt! You would not have had me +stay there with him, would you?—and your house is the only home I have +to return to. He says we can be married in a day or two.” + +“I wish he had never seen you.” + +“Very well; then I will be the miserablest woman in the world, and not +let him see me again. No, I won’t have him!” + +“It is too late to speak so. Come with me. I am going to the inn to see +if he has returned. Of course I shall get to the bottom of this story +at once. Mr. Wildeve must not suppose he can play tricks upon me, or +any belonging to me.” + +“It was not that. The license was wrong, and he couldn’t get another +the same day. He will tell you in a moment how it was, if he comes.” + +“Why didn’t he bring you back?” + +“That was me!” again sobbed Thomasin. “When I found we could not be +married I didn’t like to come back with him, and I was very ill. Then I +saw Diggory Venn, and was glad to get him to take me home. I cannot +explain it any better, and you must be angry with me if you will.” + +“I shall see about that,” said Mrs. Yeobright; and they turned towards +the inn, known in the neighbourhood as the Quiet Woman, the sign of +which represented the figure of a matron carrying her head under her +arm. The front of the house was towards the heath and Rainbarrow, whose +dark shape seemed to threaten it from the sky. Upon the door was a +neglected brass plate, bearing the unexpected inscription, “Mr. +Wildeve, Engineer”—a useless yet cherished relic from the time when he +had been started in that profession in an office at Budmouth by those +who had hoped much from him, and had been disappointed. The garden was +at the back, and behind this ran a still deep stream, forming the +margin of the heath in that direction, meadow-land appearing beyond the +stream. + +But the thick obscurity permitted only skylines to be visible of any +scene at present. The water at the back of the house could be heard, +idly spinning whirpools in its creep between the rows of dry +feather-headed reeds which formed a stockade along each bank. Their +presence was denoted by sounds as of a congregation praying humbly, +produced by their rubbing against each other in the slow wind. + +The window, whence the candlelight had shone up the vale to the eyes of +the bonfire group, was uncurtained, but the sill lay too high for a +pedestrian on the outside to look over it into the room. A vast shadow, +in which could be dimly traced portions of a masculine contour, blotted +half the ceiling. + +“He seems to be at home,” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“Must I come in, too, Aunt?” asked Thomasin faintly. “I suppose not; it +would be wrong.” + +“You must come, certainly—to confront him, so that he may make no false +representations to me. We shall not be five minutes in the house, and +then we’ll walk home.” + +Entering the open passage, she tapped at the door of the private +parlour, unfastened it, and looked in. + +The back and shoulders of a man came between Mrs. Yeobright’s eyes and +the fire. Wildeve, whose form it was, immediately turned, arose, and +advanced to meet his visitors. + +He was quite a young man, and of the two properties, form and motion, +the latter first attracted the eye in him. The grace of his movement +was singular—it was the pantomimic expression of a lady-killing career. +Next came into notice the more material qualities, among which was a +profuse crop of hair impending over the top of his face, lending to his +forehead the high-cornered outline of an early Gothic shield; and a +neck which was smooth and round as a cylinder. The lower half of his +figure was of light build. Altogether he was one in whom no man would +have seen anything to admire, and in whom no woman would have seen +anything to dislike. + +He discerned the young girl’s form in the passage, and said, “Thomasin, +then, has reached home. How could you leave me in that way, darling?” +And turning to Mrs. Yeobright—“It was useless to argue with her. She +would go, and go alone.” + +“But what’s the meaning of it all?” demanded Mrs. Yeobright haughtily. + +“Take a seat,” said Wildeve, placing chairs for the two women. “Well, +it was a very stupid mistake, but such mistakes will happen. The +license was useless at Anglebury. It was made out for Budmouth, but as +I didn’t read it I wasn’t aware of that.” + +“But you had been staying at Anglebury?” + +“No. I had been at Budmouth—till two days ago—and that was where I had +intended to take her; but when I came to fetch her we decided upon +Anglebury, forgetting that a new license would be necessary. There was +not time to get to Budmouth afterwards.” + +“I think you are very much to blame,” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“It was quite my fault we chose Anglebury,” Thomasin pleaded. “I +proposed it because I was not known there.” + +“I know so well that I am to blame that you need not remind me of it,” +replied Wildeve shortly. + +“Such things don’t happen for nothing,” said the aunt. “It is a great +slight to me and my family; and when it gets known there will be a very +unpleasant time for us. How can she look her friends in the face +tomorrow? It is a very great injury, and one I cannot easily forgive. +It may even reflect on her character.” + +“Nonsense,” said Wildeve. + +Thomasin’s large eyes had flown from the face of one to the face of the +other during this discussion, and she now said anxiously, “Will you +allow me, Aunt, to talk it over alone with Damon for five minutes? Will +you, Damon?” + +“Certainly, dear,” said Wildeve, “if your aunt will excuse us.” He led +her into an adjoining room, leaving Mrs. Yeobright by the fire. + +As soon as they were alone, and the door closed, Thomasin said, turning +up her pale, tearful face to him, “It is killing me, this, Damon! I did +not mean to part from you in anger at Anglebury this morning; but I was +frightened and hardly knew what I said. I’ve not let Aunt know how much +I suffered today; and it is so hard to command my face and voice, and +to smile as if it were a slight thing to me; but I try to do so, that +she may not be still more indignant with you. I know you could not help +it, dear, whatever Aunt may think.” + +“She is very unpleasant.” + +“Yes,” Thomasin murmured, “and I suppose I seem so now.... Damon, what +do you mean to do about me?” + +“Do about you?” + +“Yes. Those who don’t like you whisper things which at moments make me +doubt you. We mean to marry, I suppose, don’t we?” + +“Of course we do. We have only to go to Budmouth on Monday, and we +marry at once.” + +“Then do let us go!—O Damon, what you make me say!” She hid her face in +her handkerchief. “Here am I asking you to marry me, when by rights you +ought to be on your knees imploring me, your cruel mistress, not to +refuse you, and saying it would break your heart if I did. I used to +think it would be pretty and sweet like that; but how different!” + +“Yes, real life is never at all like that.” + +“But I don’t care personally if it never takes place,” she added with a +little dignity; “no, I can live without you. It is Aunt I think of. She +is so proud, and thinks so much of her family respectability, that she +will be cut down with mortification if this story should get abroad +before—it is done. My cousin Clym, too, will be much wounded.” + +“Then he will be very unreasonable. In fact, you are all rather +unreasonable.” + +Thomasin coloured a little, and not with love. But whatever the +momentary feeling which caused that flush in her, it went as it came, +and she humbly said, “I never mean to be, if I can help it. I merely +feel that you have my aunt to some extent in your power at last.” + +“As a matter of justice it is almost due to me,” said Wildeve. “Think +what I have gone through to win her consent; the insult that it is to +any man to have the banns forbidden—the double insult to a man unlucky +enough to be cursed with sensitiveness, and blue demons, and Heaven +knows what, as I am. I can never forget those banns. A harsher man +would rejoice now in the power I have of turning upon your aunt by +going no further in the business.” + +She looked wistfully at him with her sorrowful eyes as he said those +words, and her aspect showed that more than one person in the room +could deplore the possession of sensitiveness. Seeing that she was +really suffering he seemed disturbed and added, “This is merely a +reflection you know. I have not the least intention to refuse to +complete the marriage, Tamsie mine—I could not bear it.” + +“You could not, I know!” said the fair girl, brightening. “You, who +cannot bear the sight of pain in even an insect, or any disagreeable +sound, or unpleasant smell even, will not long cause pain to me and +mine.” + +“I will not, if I can help it.” + +“Your hand upon it, Damon.” + +He carelessly gave her his hand. + +“Ah, by my crown, what’s that?” he said suddenly. + +There fell upon their ears the sound of numerous voices singing in +front of the house. Among these, two made themselves prominent by their +peculiarity: one was a very strong bass, the other a wheezy thin +piping. Thomasin recognized them as belonging to Timothy Fairway and +Grandfer Cantle respectively. + +“What does it mean—it is not skimmity-riding, I hope?” she said, with a +frightened gaze at Wildeve. + +“Of course not; no, it is that the heath-folk have come to sing to us a +welcome. This is intolerable!” He began pacing about, the men outside +singing cheerily— + +“He told′ her that she′ was the joy′ of his life′, +And if′ she’d con-sent′ he would make her his wife′; +She could′ not refuse′ him; to church′ so they went′, +Young Will was forgot′, and young Sue′ was content′; +And then′ was she kiss’d′ and set down′ on his knee′, +No man′ in the world′ was so lov′-ing as he′!” + + +Mrs. Yeobright burst in from the outer room. “Thomasin, Thomasin!” she +said, looking indignantly at Wildeve; “here’s a pretty exposure! Let us +escape at once. Come!” + +It was, however, too late to get away by the passage. A rugged knocking +had begun upon the door of the front room. Wildeve, who had gone to the +window, came back. + +“Stop!” he said imperiously, putting his hand upon Mrs. Yeobright’s +arm. “We are regularly besieged. There are fifty of them out there if +there’s one. You stay in this room with Thomasin; I’ll go out and face +them. You must stay now, for my sake, till they are gone, so that it +may seem as if all was right. Come, Tamsie dear, don’t go making a +scene—we must marry after this; that you can see as well as I. Sit +still, that’s all—and don’t speak much. I’ll manage them. Blundering +fools!” + +He pressed the agitated girl into a seat, returned to the outer room +and opened the door. Immediately outside, in the passage, appeared +Grandfer Cantle singing in concert with those still standing in front +of the house. He came into the room and nodded abstractedly to Wildeve, +his lips still parted, and his features excruciatingly strained in the +emission of the chorus. This being ended, he said heartily, “Here’s +welcome to the new-made couple, and God bless ’em!” + +“Thank you,” said Wildeve, with dry resentment, his face as gloomy as a +thunderstorm. + +At the Grandfer’s heels now came the rest of the group, which included +Fairway, Christian, Sam the turf-cutter, Humphrey, and a dozen others. +All smiled upon Wildeve, and upon his tables and chairs likewise, from +a general sense of friendliness towards the articles as well as towards +their owner. + +“We be not here afore Mrs. Yeobright after all,” said Fairway, +recognizing the matron’s bonnet through the glass partition which +divided the public apartment they had entered from the room where the +women sat. “We struck down across, d’ye see, Mr. Wildeve, and she went +round by the path.” + +“And I see the young bride’s little head!” said Grandfer, peeping in +the same direction, and discerning Thomasin, who was waiting beside her +aunt in a miserable and awkward way. “Not quite settled in yet—well, +well, there’s plenty of time.” + +Wildeve made no reply; and probably feeling that the sooner he treated +them the sooner they would go, he produced a stone jar, which threw a +warm halo over matters at once. + +“That’s a drop of the right sort, I can see,” said Grandfer Cantle, +with the air of a man too well-mannered to show any hurry to taste it. + +“Yes,” said Wildeve, “’tis some old mead. I hope you will like it.” + +“O ay!” replied the guests, in the hearty tones natural when the words +demanded by politeness coincide with those of deepest feeling. “There +isn’t a prettier drink under the sun.” + +“I’ll take my oath there isn’t,” added Grandfer Cantle. “All that can +be said against mead is that ’tis rather heady, and apt to lie about a +man a good while. But tomorrow’s Sunday, thank God.” + +“I feel’d for all the world like some bold soldier after I had had some +once,” said Christian. + +“You shall feel so again,” said Wildeve, with condescension, “Cups or +glasses, gentlemen?” + +“Well, if you don’t mind, we’ll have the beaker, and pass ’en round; +’tis better than heling it out in dribbles.” + +“Jown the slippery glasses,” said Grandfer Cantle. “What’s the good of +a thing that you can’t put down in the ashes to warm, hey, neighbours; +that’s what I ask?” + +“Right, Grandfer,” said Sam; and the mead then circulated. + +“Well,” said Timothy Fairway, feeling demands upon his praise in some +form or other, “’tis a worthy thing to be married, Mr. Wildeve; and the +woman you’ve got is a dimant, so says I. Yes,” he continued, to +Grandfer Cantle, raising his voice so as to be heard through the +partition, “her father (inclining his head towards the inner room) was +as good a feller as ever lived. He always had his great indignation +ready against anything underhand.” + +“Is that very dangerous?” said Christian. + +“And there were few in these parts that were upsides with him,” said +Sam. “Whenever a club walked he’d play the clarinet in the band that +marched before ’em as if he’d never touched anything but a clarinet all +his life. And then, when they got to church door he’d throw down the +clarinet, mount the gallery, snatch up the bass viol, and rozum away as +if he’d never played anything but a bass viol. Folk would say—folk that +knowed what a true stave was—‘Surely, surely that’s never the same man +that I saw handling the clarinet so masterly by now!’” + +“I can mind it,” said the furze-cutter. “’Twas a wonderful thing that +one body could hold it all and never mix the fingering.” + +“There was Kingsbere church likewise,” Fairway recommenced, as one +opening a new vein of the same mine of interest. + +Wildeve breathed the breath of one intolerably bored, and glanced +through the partition at the prisoners. + +“He used to walk over there of a Sunday afternoon to visit his old +acquaintance Andrew Brown, the first clarinet there; a good man enough, +but rather screechy in his music, if you can mind?” + +“’A was.” + +“And neighbour Yeobright would take Andrey’s place for some part of the +service, to let Andrey have a bit of a nap, as any friend would +naturally do.” + +“As any friend would,” said Grandfer Cantle, the other listeners +expressing the same accord by the shorter way of nodding their heads. + +“No sooner was Andrey asleep and the first whiff of neighbour +Yeobright’s wind had got inside Andrey’s clarinet than everyone in +church feeled in a moment there was a great soul among ’em. All heads +would turn, and they’d say, ‘Ah, I thought ’twas he!’ One Sunday I can +well mind—a bass viol day that time, and Yeobright had brought his own. +’Twas the Hundred-and-thirty-third to ‘Lydia’; and when they’d come to +‘Ran down his beard and o’er his robes its costly moisture shed,’ +neighbour Yeobright, who had just warmed to his work, drove his bow +into them strings that glorious grand that he e’en a’most sawed the +bass viol into two pieces. Every winder in church rattled as if ’twere +a thunderstorm. Old Pa’son Williams lifted his hands in his great holy +surplice as natural as if he’d been in common clothes, and seemed to +say hisself, ‘Oh for such a man in our parish!’ But not a soul in +Kingsbere could hold a candle to Yeobright.” + +“Was it quite safe when the winder shook?” Christian inquired. + +He received no answer, all for the moment sitting rapt in admiration of +the performance described. As with Farinelli’s singing before the +princesses, Sheridan’s renowned Begum Speech, and other such examples, +the fortunate condition of its being for ever lost to the world +invested the deceased Mr. Yeobright’s tour de force on that memorable +afternoon with a cumulative glory which comparative criticism, had that +been possible, might considerably have shorn down. + +“He was the last you’d have expected to drop off in the prime of life,” +said Humphrey. + +“Ah, well; he was looking for the earth some months afore he went. At +that time women used to run for smocks and gown-pieces at Greenhill +Fair, and my wife that is now, being a long-legged slittering maid, +hardly husband-high, went with the rest of the maidens, for ’a was a +good runner afore she got so heavy. When she came home I said—we were +then just beginning to walk together—‘What have ye got, my honey?’ +‘I’ve won—well, I’ve won—a gown-piece,’ says she, her colours coming up +in a moment. ’Tis a smock for a crown, I thought; and so it turned out. +Ay, when I think what she’ll say to me now without a mossel of red in +her face, it do seem strange that ’a wouldn’t say such a little thing +then.... However, then she went on, and that’s what made me bring up +the story, ‘Well, whatever clothes I’ve won, white or figured, for eyes +to see or for eyes not to see’ (’a could do a pretty stroke of modesty +in those days), ‘I’d sooner have lost it than have seen what I have. +Poor Mr. Yeobright was took bad directly he reached the fair ground, +and was forced to go home again.’ That was the last time he ever went +out of the parish.” + +“’A faltered on from one day to another, and then we heard he was +gone.” + +“D’ye think he had great pain when ’a died?” said Christian. + +“O no—quite different. Nor any pain of mind. He was lucky enough to be +God A’mighty’s own man.” + +“And other folk—d’ye think ’twill be much pain to ’em, Mister Fairway?” + +“That depends on whether they be afeard.” + +“I bain’t afeard at all, I thank God!” said Christian strenuously. “I’m +glad I bain’t, for then ’twon’t pain me.... I don’t think I be +afeard—or if I be I can’t help it, and I don’t deserve to suffer. I +wish I was not afeard at all!” + +There was a solemn silence, and looking from the window, which was +unshuttered and unblinded, Timothy said, “Well, what a fess little +bonfire that one is, out by Cap’n Vye’s! ’Tis burning just the same now +as ever, upon my life.” + +All glances went through the window, and nobody noticed that Wildeve +disguised a brief, telltale look. Far away up the sombre valley of +heath, and to the right of Rainbarrow, could indeed be seen the light, +small, but steady and persistent as before. + +“It was lighted before ours was,” Fairway continued; “and yet every one +in the country round is out afore ’n.” + +“Perhaps there’s meaning in it!” murmured Christian. + +“How meaning?” said Wildeve sharply. + +Christian was too scattered to reply, and Timothy helped him. + +“He means, sir, that the lonesome dark-eyed creature up there that some +say is a witch—ever I should call a fine young woman such a name—is +always up to some odd conceit or other; and so perhaps ’tis she.” + +“I’d be very glad to ask her in wedlock, if she’d hae me and take the +risk of her wild dark eyes ill-wishing me,” said Grandfer Cantle +staunchly. + +“Don’t ye say it, Father!” implored Christian. + +“Well, be dazed if he who do marry the maid won’t hae an uncommon +picture for his best parlour,” said Fairway in a liquid tone, placing +down the cup of mead at the end of a good pull. + +“And a partner as deep as the North Star,” said Sam, taking up the cup +and finishing the little that remained. “Well, really, now I think we +must be moving,” said Humphrey, observing the emptiness of the vessel. + +“But we’ll gie ’em another song?” said Grandfer Cantle. “I’m as full of +notes as a bird!” + +“Thank you, Grandfer,” said Wildeve. “But we will not trouble you now. +Some other day must do for that—when I have a party.” + +“Be jown’d if I don’t learn ten new songs for’t, or I won’t learn a +line!” said Grandfer Cantle. “And you may be sure I won’t disappoint ye +by biding away, Mr. Wildeve.” + +“I quite believe you,” said that gentleman. + +All then took their leave, wishing their entertainer long life and +happiness as a married man, with recapitulations which occupied some +time. Wildeve attended them to the door, beyond which the deep-dyed +upward stretch of heath stood awaiting them, an amplitude of darkness +reigning from their feet almost to the zenith, where a definite form +first became visible in the lowering forehead of Rainbarrow. Diving +into the dense obscurity in a line headed by Sam the turf-cutter, they +pursued their trackless way home. + +When the scratching of the furze against their leggings had fainted +upon the ear, Wildeve returned to the room where he had left Thomasin +and her aunt. The women were gone. + +They could only have left the house in one way, by the back window; and +this was open. + +Wildeve laughed to himself, remained a moment thinking, and idly +returned to the front room. Here his glance fell upon a bottle of wine +which stood on the mantelpiece. “Ah—old Dowden!” he murmured; and going +to the kitchen door shouted, “Is anybody here who can take something to +old Dowden?” + +There was no reply. The room was empty, the lad who acted as his +factotum having gone to bed. Wildeve came back, put on his hat, took +the bottle, and left the house, turning the key in the door, for there +was no guest at the inn tonight. As soon as he was on the road the +little bonfire on Mistover Knap again met his eye. + +“Still waiting, are you, my lady?” he murmured. + +However, he did not proceed that way just then; but leaving the hill to +the left of him, he stumbled over a rutted road that brought him to a +cottage which, like all other habitations on the heath at this hour, +was only saved from being visible by a faint shine from its bedroom +window. This house was the home of Olly Dowden, the besom-maker, and he +entered. + +The lower room was in darkness; but by feeling his way he found a +table, whereon he placed the bottle, and a minute later emerged again +upon the heath. He stood and looked northeast at the undying little +fire—high up above him, though not so high as Rainbarrow. + +We have been told what happens when a woman deliberates; and the +epigram is not always terminable with woman, provided that one be in +the case, and that a fair one. Wildeve stood, and stood longer, and +breathed perplexedly, and then said to himself with resignation, +“Yes—by Heaven, I must go to her, I suppose!” + +Instead of turning in the direction of home he pressed on rapidly by a +path under Rainbarrow towards what was evidently a signal light. + + + + +VI. +The Figure against the Sky + + +When the whole Egdon concourse had left the site of the bonfire to its +accustomed loneliness, a closely wrapped female figure approached the +barrow from that quarter of the heath in which the little fire lay. Had +the reddleman been watching he might have recognized her as the woman +who had first stood there so singularly, and vanished at the approach +of strangers. She ascended to her old position at the top, where the +red coals of the perishing fire greeted her like living eyes in the +corpse of day. There she stood still around her stretching the vast +night atmosphere, whose incomplete darkness in comparison with the +total darkness of the heath below it might have represented a venial +beside a mortal sin. + +That she was tall and straight in build, that she was lady-like in her +movements, was all that could be learnt of her just now, her form being +wrapped in a shawl folded in the old cornerwise fashion, and her head +in a large kerchief, a protection not superfluous at this hour and +place. Her back was towards the wind, which blew from the northwest; +but whether she had avoided that aspect because of the chilly gusts +which played about her exceptional position, or because her interest +lay in the southeast, did not at first appear. + +Her reason for standing so dead still as the pivot of this circle of +heath-country was just as obscure. Her extraordinary fixity, her +conspicuous loneliness, her heedlessness of night, betokened among +other things an utter absence of fear. A tract of country unaltered +from that sinister condition which made 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Ah!” she said, as if surprised. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I am glad you have come, Miss Eustacia,” he said, with a sigh of +relief. “I don’t like biding by myself.” + +“Nonsense. I have only been a little way for a walk. I have been gone +only twenty minutes.” + +“It seemed long,” murmured the sad boy. “And you have been so many +times.” + +“Why, I thought you would be pleased to have a bonfire. Are you not +much obliged to me for making you one?” + +“Yes; but there’s nobody here to play wi’ me.” + +“I suppose nobody has come while I’ve been away?” + +“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.” + +“A good boy.” + +“I think I hear him coming again, miss.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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?” + +The boy looked up doubtfully at her and murmured, “I don’t think I want +it any longer.” + +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.” + +The repressed child said, “Yes, I do, miss,” and continued to stir the +fire perfunctorily. + +“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.” + +“Yes, Eustacia.” + +“Miss Vye, sir.” + +“Miss Vy—stacia.” + +“That will do. Now put in one stick more.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Twice she reappeared at intervals of a few minutes and each time she +said— + +“Not any flounce into the pond yet, little man?” + +“No, Miss Eustacia,” the child replied. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well?” said Eustacia. + +“A hopfrog have jumped into the pond. Yes, I heard ’en!” + +“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. + +“No, because I shall hae the crooked sixpence.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Yes?” she said, and held her breath. + +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. + +“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. + +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?” + +“I knew it was meant for me.” + +“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!” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“What have you heard to make you think that?” said Wildeve, astonished. + +“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.” + +“If I had known you wished to call me up here only to reproach me, I +wouldn’t have come.” + +“But I don’t mind it, and I do forgive you now that you have not +married her, and have come back to me!” + +“Who told you that I had not married her?” + +“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.” + +“Does anybody else know?” + +“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.” + +Wildeve was silent; it was evident that he had supposed as much. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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?” + +Eustacia was not one to commit herself to such a position without good +ground. He said quietly, “No.” + +“Not even on the shoulders of Thomasin?” + +“Thomasin is a pleasing and innocent woman.” + +“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?” + +“I am sorry I caused you that pain.” + +“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.” + +“Hypochondriasis.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Of course you will.” + +“And yet I declare that until I got here tonight I intended, after this +one good-bye, never to meet you again.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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?” + +“If you own to me that the wedding is broken off because you love me +best.” + +“I don’t think it would be good policy,” said Wildeve, smiling. “You +would get to know the extent of your power too clearly.” + +“But tell me!” + +“You know.” + +“Where is she now?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“O no,” she said, intractably moving to the other side of the decayed +fire. “What did you mean by that?” + +“Perhaps I may kiss your hand?” + +“No, you may not.” + +“Then I may shake your hand?” + +“No.” + +“Then I wish you good night without caring for either. Good-bye, +good-bye.” + +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. + +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. + + + + +VII. +Queen of Night + + +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. + +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. + +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 _Ulex +Europæus_—which will act as a sort of hairbrush—she would go back a few +steps, and pass against it a second time. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VIII. +Those Who Are Found Where There Is Said to Be Nobody + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Two he’th-croppers down here,” he said aloud. “I have never known ’em +come down so far afore.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“How I wish ’twas only a gipsy!” he murmured. + +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. + +The red man opened the lantern and turned it upon the figure of the +prostrate boy. + +“Who be ye?” he said. + +“Johnny Nunsuch, master!” + +“What were you doing up there?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Watching me, I suppose?” + +“Yes, master.” + +“What did you watch me for?” + +“Because I was coming home from Miss Vye’s bonfire.” + +“Beest hurt?” + +“No.” + +“Why, yes, you be—your hand is bleeding. Come under my tilt and let me +tie it up.” + +“Please let me look for my sixpence.” + +“How did you come by that?” + +“Miss Vye gied it to me for keeping up her bonfire.” + +The sixpence was found, and the man went to the van, the boy behind, +almost holding his breath. + +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. + +“My eyes have got foggy-like—please may I sit down, master?” said the +boy. + +“To be sure, poor chap. ’Tis enough to make you feel fainty. Sit on +that bundle.” + +The man finished tying up the gash, and the boy said, “I think I’ll go +home now, master.” + +“You are rather afraid of me. Do you know what I be?” + +The child surveyed his vermilion figure up and down with much misgiving +and finally said, “Yes.” + +“Well, what?” + +“The reddleman!” he faltered. + +“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.” + +“Is there? You won’t carry me off in your bags, will ye, master? ’Tis +said that the reddleman will sometimes.” + +“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.” + +“Was you born a reddleman?” + +“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?” + +“No, never. Willy Orchard said he seed a red ghost here t’other +day—perhaps that was you?” + +“I was here t’other day.” + +“Were you making that dusty light I saw by now?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“And how long did that last?” + +“Until a hopfrog jumped into the pond.” + +The reddleman suddenly ceased to talk idly. “A hopfrog?” he inquired. +“Hopfrogs don’t jump into ponds this time of year.” + +“They do, for I heard one.” + +“Certain-sure?” + +“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.” + +“And what then?” + +“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.” + +“A gentleman—ah! What did she say to him, my man?” + +“Told him she supposed he had not married the other woman because he +liked his old sweetheart best; and things like that.” + +“What did the gentleman say to her, my sonny?” + +“He only said he did like her best, and how he was coming to see her +again under Rainbarrow o’ nights.” + +“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!” + +The little boy jumped clean from the stool. + +“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?” + +“I can’t mind. Please, Master Reddleman, may I go home-along now?” + +“Ay, to be sure you may. I’ll go a bit of ways with you.” + +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. + + + + +IX. +Love Leads a Shrewd Man into Strategy + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + +DEAR DIGGORY VENN,—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, + +THOMASIN YEOBRIGHT. + + +To Mr. VENN, Dairy-farmer. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He watched for a meeting there, but he watched in vain. Nobody except +himself came near the spot that night. + +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. + +The same hour the next evening found him again at the same place; but +Eustacia and Wildeve, the expected trysters, did not appear. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Wish to consult me on the matter?” reached his ears in the rich, +impetuous accents of Eustacia Vye. “Consult me? It is an indignity to +me to talk so—I won’t bear it any longer!” She began weeping. “I have +loved you, and have shown you that I loved you, much to my regret; and +yet you can come and say in that frigid way that you wish to consult +with me whether it would not be better to marry Thomasin. Better—of +course it would be. Marry her—she is nearer to your own position in +life than I am!” + +“Yes, yes; that’s very well,” said Wildeve peremptorily. “But we must +look at things as they are. Whatever blame may attach to me for having +brought it about, Thomasin’s position is at present much worse than +yours. I simply tell you that I am in a strait.” + +“But you shall not tell me! You must see that it is only harassing me. +Damon, you have not acted well; you have sunk in my opinion. You have +not valued my courtesy—the courtesy of a lady in loving you—who used to +think of far more ambitious things. But it was Thomasin’s fault. She +won you away from me, and she deserves to suffer for it. Where is she +staying now? Not that I care, nor where I am myself. Ah, if I were dead +and gone how glad she would be! Where is she, I ask?” + +“Thomasin is now staying at her aunt’s shut up in a bedroom, and +keeping out of everybody’s sight,” he said indifferently. + +“I don’t think you care much about her even now,” said Eustacia with +sudden joyousness, “for if you did you wouldn’t talk so coolly about +her. Do you talk so coolly to her about me? Ah, I expect you do! Why +did you originally go away from me? I don’t think I can ever forgive +you, except on one condition, that whenever you desert me, you come +back again, sorry that you served me so.” + +“I never wish to desert you.” + +“I do not thank you for that. I should hate it to be all 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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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?” + +“Do you press me to tell?” + +“Yes, I must know. I see I have been too ready to believe in my own +power.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“Yes, you served me cruelly enough until I thought I had found someone +fairer than you. A blessed find for me, Eustacia.” + +“Do you still think you found somebody fairer?” + +“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. The scales are balanced so nicely +that a feather would turn them.” + +“But don’t you really care whether I meet you or whether I don’t?” she +said slowly. + +“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?” + +She interrupted with a suppressed fire of which either love or anger +seemed an equally possible issue, “Do you love me now?” + +“Who can say?” + +“Tell me; I will know it!” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Well, I can do worse than follow you.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“I do,” she murmured deeply. “’Tis my cross, my shame, and will be my +death!” + +“I abhor it too,” said he. “How mournfully the wind blows round us +now!” + +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. + +“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.” + +“That wants consideration.” + +“It seems impossible to do well here, unless one were a wild bird or a +landscape-painter. Well?” + +“Give me time,” she softly said, taking his hand. “America is so far +away. Are you going to walk with me a little way?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“My Tamsie,” he whispered heavily. “What can be done? Yes, I will see +that Eustacia Vye.” + + + + +X. +A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +“I suppose the young lady is not up yet?” he presently said to the +servant. + +“Not quite yet. Folks never call upon ladies at this time of day.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Ah! what man?” + +He jerked his elbow to the southeast—the direction of the Quiet Woman. + +Eustacia turned quickly to him. “Do you mean Mr. Wildeve?” + +“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.” + +“I? What is the trouble?” + +“It is quite a secret. It is that he may refuse to marry Thomasin +Yeobright after all.” + +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.” + +“But, miss, you will hear one word?” + +“I cannot. I am not interested in the marriage, and even if I were I +could not compel Mr. Wildeve to do my bidding.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Can it be that you really don’t know of it—how much she had always +thought of you?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +She shook her head. + +“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. + +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.” + +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.” + +“Surely what she cannot do who has been so much with him I cannot do +living up here away from him.” + +The reddleman wheeled and looked her in the face. “Miss Vye!” he said. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“You are mistaken. What do you mean?” + +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.” + +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. + +“I am unwell,” she said hurriedly. “No—it is not that—I am not in a +humour to hear you further. Leave me, please.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“I have _not_ 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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +She inclined her head, and swept round so that her eyes rested in the +misty vale beneath them. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“How?” said Eustacia, with intense curiosity in her heavy eyes. + +“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.” + +“I should have to work, perhaps?” + +“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.” + +“I knew it meant work,” she said, drooping to languor again. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Help me to get Thomasin happy, miss, and the chance shall be yours,” +urged her companion. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“I will never give him up—never!” she said impetuously. + +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. + + + + +XI. +The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman + + +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. + +She did not conceal the fact. “Then,” said the reddleman, “you may as +well leave it alone, Mrs. Yeobright.” + +“I half think so myself,” she said. “But nothing else remains to be +done besides pressing the question upon him.” + +“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.” + +Mrs. Yeobright was not demonstrative, but her eyes involuntarily +glanced towards his singular though shapely figure. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“True; or I shouldn’t have done what I have this morning.” + +“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?” + +“She wrote that you would object to me; and other things.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +Wildeve was at home when she reached the inn. He showed her silently +into the parlour, and closed the door. Mrs. Yeobright began— + +“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.” + +“Yes? What is it?” he said civilly. + +“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.” + +“Who is the man?” said Wildeve with surprise. + +“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.” + +“Well?” + +“He has seen her lately, and has asked me for permission to pay his +addresses to her. She may not refuse him twice.” + +“What is his name?” + +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.” + +“She never once told me of this old lover.” + +“The gentlest women are not such fools as to show _every_ card.” + +“Well, if she wants him I suppose she must have him.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“And in your disparagement of me at the same time.” + +“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.” + +“I can hardly say that just now, Mrs. Yeobright. It is so sudden.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“We have heard that before.” + +“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?” + +“Yes,” she replied, “provided you promise not to communicate with +Thomasin without my knowledge.” + +“I promise that,” he said. And the interview then terminated, Mrs. +Yeobright returning homeward as she had come. + +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. + +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. + +The soft words, “I hear; wait for me,” in Eustacia’s voice from within +told him that she was alone. + +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. + +“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.” + +“What has happened?” said Eustacia. “I did not know you were in +trouble. I too am gloomy enough.” + +“I am not in trouble,” said he. “It is merely that affairs have come to +a head, and I must take a clear course.” + +“What course is that?” she asked with attentive interest. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, but the situation is different now.” + +“Explain to me.” + +“I don’t want to explain, for I may pain you.” + +“But I must know the reason of this hurry.” + +“It is simply my ardour, dear Eustacia. Everything is smooth now.” + +“Then why are you so ruffled?” + +“I am not aware of it. All is as it should be. Mrs. Yeobright—but she +is nothing to us.” + +“Ah, I knew she had something to do with it! Come, I don’t like +reserve.” + +“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. + +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. + +“It seems so. But I have not yet seen Thomasin.” + +“And that irritates you. Don’t deny it, Damon. You are actually nettled +by this slight from an unexpected quarter.” + +“Well?” + +“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.” + +“Please remember that I proposed the same thing the other day.” + +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. + +“Well, darling, you agree?” said Wildeve. + +“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.” + +“You can be painfully frank. You loved me a month ago warmly enough to +go anywhere with me.” + +“And you loved Thomasin.” + +“Yes, perhaps that was where the reason lay,” he returned, with almost +a sneer. “I don’t hate her now.” + +“Exactly. The only thing is that you can no longer get her.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I have already,” said Wildeve. “Well, I give you one more week.” + +“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.” + +“Never mind that. Say Monday week. I will be here precisely at this +time.” + +“Let it be at Rainbarrow,” said she. “This is too near home; my +grandfather may be walking out.” + +“Thank you, dear. On Monday week at this time I will be at the Barrow. +Till then good-bye.” + +“Good-bye. No, no, you must not touch me now. Shaking hands is enough +till I have made up my mind.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“I have heard none,” she said. + +“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?” + +“I never saw him in my life.” + +“Ah, true; he left before you came here. I well remember him as a +promising boy.” + +“Where has he been living all these years?” + +“In that rookery of pomp and vanity, Paris, I believe.” + + + + +BOOK SECOND—THE ARRIVAL + + + + +I. +Tidings of the Comer + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She remembered: the furze-stack was not far from the chimney, and the +voices were those of the workers. + +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.” + +“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.’” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I can well mind when he left home,” said Sam. + +“’Tis a good thing for the feller,” said Humphrey. “A sight of times +better to be selling diments than nobbling about here.” + +“It must cost a good few shillings to deal at such a place.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Now, I should think, Cap’n, that Miss Eustacia had about as much in +her head that comes from books as anybody about here?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Coming across the water to Budmouth by steamer, isn’t he?” + +“Yes; but how he’s coming from Budmouth I don’t know.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I’ve heard she wouldn’t have Wildeve now if he asked her.” + +“You have? ’Tis news to me.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +II. +The People at Blooms-End Make Ready + + +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. + +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. + +“Now a few russets, Tamsin. He used to like them almost as well as +ribstones.” + +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. + +“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. + +“If he could have been dear to you in another way,” said Mrs. Yeobright +from the ladder, “this might have been a happy meeting.” + +“Is there any use in saying what can do no good, Aunt?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I am afraid—” began Mrs. Yeobright. + +“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.” + +“Thomasin,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly, fixing her eye upon her niece, +“do you think you deceive me in your defence of Mr. Wildeve?” + +“How do you mean?” + +“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.” + +“He wished to marry me, and I wish to marry him.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“Yes, you have.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What did you tell him?” + +“That he was standing in the way of another lover of yours.” + +“Aunt,” said Thomasin, with round eyes, “what _do_ you mean?” + +“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.” + +Thomasin was perforce content. + +“And you will keep the secret of my would-be marriage from Clym for the +present?” she next asked. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +III. +How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream + + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _could_ the tastes of that man be who saw friendliness and +geniality in these shaggy hills? + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Why shouldn’t I?” + +“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?” + +“I thought Mrs. Yeobright was a ladylike woman? A curate’s daughter, +was she not?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +She cried aloud. “O that I had seen his face!” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +The first occasion passed, and he did not come that way. + +She promenaded a second time, and was again the sole wanderer there. + +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. + +At the fourth attempt to encounter him it began to rain in torrents, +and she turned back. + +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. + +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. + + + + +IV. +Eustacia Is Led on to an Adventure + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Who’s there?” said Eustacia. + +“Please, Cap’n Vye, will you let us——” + +Eustacia arose and went to the door. “I cannot allow you to come in so +boldly. You should have waited.” + +“The cap’n said I might come in without any fuss,” was answered in a +lad’s pleasant voice. + +“Oh, did he?” said Eustacia more gently. “What do you want, Charley?” + +“Please will your grandfather lend us his fuelhouse to try over our +parts in, tonight at seven o’clock?” + +“What, are you one of the Egdon mummers for this year?” + +“Yes, miss. The cap’n used to let the old mummers practise here.” + +“I know it. Yes, you may use the fuelhouse if you like,” said Eustacia +languidly. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“We shall by Monday.” + +“Your first outing will be Monday night, I suppose?” + +“Yes. At Mrs. Yeobright’s.” + +“Oh, Mrs. Yeobright’s. What makes her want to see ye? I should think a +middle-aged woman was tired of mumming.” + +“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.” + +“To be sure, to be sure—her party! I am going myself. I almost forgot +it, upon my life.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Yes, miss, the Turkish Knight,” he replied diffidently. + +“Is yours a long part?” + +“Nine speeches, about.” + +“Can you repeat them to me? If so I should like to hear them.” + +The lad smiled into the glowing turf and began— + +“Here come I, a Turkish Knight, +Who learnt in Turkish land to fight,” + + +continuing the discourse throughout the scenes to the concluding +catastrophe of his fall by the hand of Saint George. + +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. + +Charley’s eyes rounded with surprise. “Well, you be a clever lady!” he +said, in admiration. “I’ve been three weeks learning mine.” + +“I have heard it before,” she quietly observed. “Now, would you do +anything to please me, Charley?” + +“I’d do a good deal, miss.” + +“Would you let me play your part for one night?” + +“Oh, miss! But your woman’s gown—you couldn’t.” + +“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?” + +The youth shook his head + +“Five shillings?” + +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. + +“What will, then, Charley?” said Eustacia in a disappointed tone. + +“You know what you forbade me at the Maypoling, miss,” murmured the +lad, without looking at her, and still stroking the firedog’s head. + +“Yes,” said Eustacia, with a little more hauteur. “You wanted to join +hands with me in the ring, if I recollect?” + +“Half an hour of that, and I’ll agree, miss.” + +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. + +“Holding your hand in mine.” + +She was silent. “Make it a quarter of an hour,” she said + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Here are the things,” he whispered, placing them upon the threshold. +“And now, Miss Eustacia—” + +“The payment. It is quite ready. I am as good as my word.” + +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. + +“Why, there’s a glove on it!” he said in a deprecating way. + +“I have been walking,” she observed. + +“But, miss!” + +“Well—it is hardly fair.” She pulled off the glove, and gave him her +bare hand. + +They stood together minute after minute, without further speech, each +looking at the blackening scene, and each thinking his and her own +thoughts. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Charley walked and waited, and presently heard a soft whistle. He +returned to the fuelhouse door. + +“Did you whistle, Miss Vye?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“And now for your excuse to the others,” she said. “Where do you meet +before you go to Mrs. Yeobright’s?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, miss. But I think I’ll have one minute more of what I am owed, if +you don’t mind.” + +Eustacia gave him her hand as before. + +“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. + +“There, ’tis all gone; and I didn’t mean quite all,” he said, with a +sigh. + +“You had good measure,” said she, turning away. + +“Yes, miss. Well, ’tis over, and now I’ll get home-along.” + + + + +V. +Through the Moonlight + + +The next evening the mummers were assembled in the same spot, awaiting +the entrance of the Turkish Knight. + +“Twenty minutes after eight by the Quiet Woman, and Charley not come.” + +“Ten minutes past by Blooms-End.” + +“It wants ten minutes to, by Grandfer Cantle’s watch.” + +“And ’tis five minutes past by the captain’s clock.” + +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. + +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. + +“Here’s Charley at last! How late you be, Charley.” + +“’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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is there no passage inside the door, then?” asked Eustacia as they +stood within the porch. + +“No,” said the lad who played the Saracen. “The door opens right upon +the front sitting-room, where the spree’s going on.” + +“So that we cannot open the door without stopping the dance.” + +“That’s it. Here we must bide till they have done, for they always bolt +the back door after dark.” + +“They won’t be much longer,” said Father Christmas. + +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. + +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. + +“Why does Mrs. Yeobright give parties of this sort?” Eustacia asked, a +little surprised to hear merriment so pronounced. + +“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.” + +“I see,” said Eustacia. + +“’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.’” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“’Twon’t be long; ’tis a six-handed reel,” said the Doctor. + +“Why not go in, dancing or no? They sent for us,” said the Saracen. + +“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.” + +“He thinks himself somebody because he has had a bit more schooling +than we,” said the Doctor. + +“You may go to the deuce!” said Eustacia. + +There was a whispered conversation between three or four of them, and +one turned to her. + +“Will you tell us one thing?” he said, not without gentleness. “Be you +Miss Vye? We think you must be.” + +“You may think what you like,” said Eustacia slowly. “But honourable +lads will not tell tales upon a lady.” + +“We’ll say nothing, miss. That’s upon our honour.” + +“Thank you,” she replied. + +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. + +“Ah, the mummers, the mummers!” cried several guests at once. “Clear a +space for the mummers.” + +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 + +“Make room, make room, my gallant boys, +And give us space to rhyme; +We’ve come to show Saint George’s play, +Upon this Christmas time.” + + +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— + +“Here come I, the Valiant Soldier; +Slasher is my name”; + + +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— + +“Here come I, a Turkish Knight, +Who learnt in Turkish land to fight; +I’ll fight this man with courage bold: +If his blood’s hot I’ll make it cold!” + + +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. + +Meanwhile Jim Starks as the Valiant Soldier had come forward, and, with +a glare upon the Turk, replied— + +“If, then, thou art that Turkish Knight, +Draw out thy sword, and let us fight!” + + +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— + +“Here come I, Saint George, the valiant man, +With naked sword and spear in hand, +Who fought the dragon and brought him to the slaughter, +And by this won fair Sabra, the King of Egypt’s daughter; +What mortal man would dare to stand +Before me with my sword in hand?” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VI. +The Two Stand Face to Face + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +“You too have altered, and for the better, I think Timothy,” said +Yeobright, surveying the firm figure of Fairway. + +“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. + +“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. + +“You haven’t changed much,” said Yeobright. + +“If there’s any difference, Grandfer is younger,” appended Fairway +decisively. + +“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.” + +“Nor any o’ us,” said Humphrey, in a low rich tone of admiration, not +intended to reach anybody’s ears. + +“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!” + +“’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.” + +“Coffins, where?” inquired Christian, drawing nearer. “Have the ghost +of one appeared to anybody, Master Fairway?” + +“No, no. Don’t let your mind so mislead your ears, Christian; and be a +man,” said Timothy reproachfully. + +“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?” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“None, thank you,” replied Eustacia. + +“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.” + +“But he will take something?” persisted Yeobright. “Try a glass of mead +or elder-wine.” + +“Yes, you had better try that,” said the Saracen. “It will keep the +cold out going home-along.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Hush—no, no,” she said quickly. “I only came to speak to you.” + +“But why not join us?” + +“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.” + +“It isn’t nearly so pleasant without you. Are you really ill?” + +“Just a little, my old cousin—here,” she said, playfully sweeping her +hand across her heart. + +“Ah, Mother should have asked somebody else to be present tonight, +perhaps?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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,[1] +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. + + [1] Written in 1877. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“I am a woman.” + +His eyes lingered on her with great interest. “Do girls often play as +mummers now? They never used to.” + +“They don’t now.” + +“Why did you?” + +“To get excitement and shake off depression,” she said in low tones. + +“What depressed you?” + +“Life.” + +“That’s a cause of depression a good many have to put up with.” + +“Yes.” + +A long silence. “And do you find excitement?” asked Clym at last. + +“At this moment, perhaps.” + +“Then you are vexed at being discovered?” + +“Yes; though I thought I might be.” + +“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?” + +“Never.” + +“Won’t you come in again, and stay as long as you like?” + +“No. I wish not to be further recognized.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +She remained deeply pondering; and Thomasin’s winning manner towards +her cousin arose again upon Eustacia’s mind. + +“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!” + +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. + + + + +VII. +A Coalition between Beauty and Oddness + + +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. + +“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. + +“Search of events—one would think you were one of the bucks I knew at +one-and-twenty.” + +“It is lonely here.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No, never? Ha, ha! Good gad! I didn’t expect it of you, Eustacia.” + +“It was my first performance, and it certainly will be my last. Now I +have told you—and remember it is a secret.” + +“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.” + +“You need have no fear for me, Grandpapa.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +The roof and chimney of Venn’s caravan showed behind the tracery and +tangles of the brake. + +“You remain near this part?” she asked with more interest. + +“Yes, I have business here.” + +“Not altogether the selling of reddle?” + +“It has nothing to do with that.” + +“It has to do with Miss Yeobright?” + +Her face seemed to ask for an armed peace, and he therefore said +frankly, “Yes, miss; it is on account of her.” + +“On account of your approaching marriage with her?” + +Venn flushed through his stain. “Don’t make sport of me, Miss Vye,” he +said. + +“It isn’t true?” + +“Certainly not.” + +She was thus convinced that the reddleman was a mere _pis aller_ 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.” + +“Certainly, miss; I’ll make a place for you.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Ah—what was that?” Eustacia wished to leave him, but wished to know. + +“Mr. Wildeve stayed at Rainbarrow a long time waiting for a lady who +didn’t come.” + +“You waited too, it seems?” + +“Yes, I always do. I was glad to see him disappointed. He will be there +again tonight.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you know that Mr. Wildeve will come to Rainbarrow again +tonight?” she asked. + +“I heard him say to himself that he would. He’s in a regular temper.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Very well,” said Eustacia. “Come towards my house, and I will bring it +out to you.” + +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. + +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?” + +“Can you ask that?” + +“I suppose you think to serve Thomasin in some way by it. Are you as +anxious as ever to help on her marriage?” + +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.” + +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. + +“Then we are both of one mind at last,” she said. + +“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.” + +Eustacia appeared at a loss. “I cannot tell you that, reddleman,” she +said coldly. + +Venn said no more. He pocketed the letter, and, bowing to Eustacia, +went away. + +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. + +“The meeting is always at eight o’clock, at this place,” said Venn, +“and here we are—we three.” + +“We three?” said Wildeve, looking quickly round. + +“Yes; you, and I, and she. This is she.” He held up the letter and +parcel. + +Wildeve took them wonderingly. “I don’t quite see what this means,” he +said. “How do you come here? There must be some mistake.” + +“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. + +“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——” + +“Please read the letter.” + +“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. + +“To Mr. WILDEVE. + + +“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. + 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. + + +“EUSTACIA.” + + +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?” + +The reddleman hummed a tune. + +“Can’t you answer me?” asked Wildeve warmly. + +“Ru-um-tum-tum,” sang the reddleman. + +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.” + +“My interests?” + +“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?” + +“Good Lord! I heard of this before, but didn’t believe it. When did she +say so?” + +Wildeve began humming as the reddleman had done. + +“I don’t believe it now,” cried Venn. + +“Ru-um-tum-tum,” sang Wildeve. + +“O Lord—how we can imitate!” said Venn contemptuously. “I’ll have this +out. I’ll go straight to her.” + +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. + +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? + +Full of this resolve to marry in haste, and wring the heart of the +proud girl, Wildeve went his way. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Man alive, you’ve been quick at it,” said Diggory sarcastically. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VIII. +Firmness Is Discovered in a Gentle Heart + + +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. + +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. + +“I don’t like your going out after dark alone, Tamsin,” said her aunt +quietly, without looking up from her work. + +“I have only been just outside the door.” + +“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. + +“It was _he_ who knocked,” she said. + +“I thought as much.” + +“He wishes the marriage to be at once.” + +“Indeed! What—is he anxious?” Mrs. Yeobright directed a searching look +upon her niece. “Why did not Mr. Wildeve come in?” + +“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.” + +“Oh! And what did you say?” + +“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.” + +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:— + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Don’t say that and dishearten me.” + +“You are right—I will not.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“O no, Aunt,” murmured Thomasin. + +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.” + +“No?” + +“Yes, that queer young man Venn.” + +“Asks to pay his addresses to me?” + +“Yes; and I told him he was too late.” + +Thomasin looked silently into the candle-flame. “Poor Diggory!” she +said, and then aroused herself to other things. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“I told Damon I would leave at nine,” said Thomasin, hastening out of +the room. + +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.” + +“It is necessary,” said Thomasin. + +“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. + +A few steps further, and she looked back. “Did you call me, Aunt?” she +tremulously inquired. “Good-bye!” + +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.” + +“I—I am—” Thomasin began, giving way likewise. But, quelling her grief, +she said “Good-bye!” again and went on. + +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. + +But the worst feature in the case was one which did not appear in the +landscape; it was the man. + +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. + +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. + +“I had an early breakfast,” he said to his mother after greeting her. +“Now I could eat a little more.” + +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?” + +“It is true in many points,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly; “but it is +all right now, I hope.” She looked at the clock. + +“True?” + +“Thomasin is gone to him today.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“It wouldn’t have been bothering me. Mother, you did wrong.” + +“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.” + +“Tamsin actually being married while we are sitting here!” + +“Yes. Unless some accident happens again, as it did the first time. It +may, considering he’s the same man.” + +“Yes, and I believe it will. Was it right to let her go? Suppose +Wildeve is really a bad fellow?” + +“Then he won’t come, and she’ll come home again.” + +“You should have looked more into it.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“It is over by this time,” said his mother with a sigh; “unless they +were late, or he—” + +“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!” + +“And ruined her character?” + +“Nonsense—that wouldn’t ruin Thomasin.” + +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. + +“I find there isn’t time for me to get there,” said Clym. + +“Is she married?” Mrs. Yeobright inquired, turning to the reddleman a +face in which a strange strife of wishes, for and against, was +apparent. + +Venn bowed. “She is, ma’am.” + +“How strange it sounds,” murmured Clym. + +“And he didn’t disappoint her this time?” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“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.” + +“How came you to be there? How did you know it?” she asked. + +“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. + +“Who was there?” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“Nobody hardly. I stood right out of the way, and she did not see me.” +The reddleman spoke huskily, and looked into the garden. + +“Who gave her away?” + +“Miss Vye.” + +“How very remarkable! Miss Vye! It is to be considered an honour, I +suppose?” + +“Who’s Miss Vye?” said Clym. + +“Captain Vye’s granddaughter, of Mistover Knap.” + +“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.” + +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—— + +“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.” + +“How came Miss Vye to have anything to do with it, if she was only on a +walk that way?” + +“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.” + +“I offered to go,” said Mrs. Yeobright regretfully. “But she said it +was not necessary.” + +“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.” + +He placed his cap on his head and went out. + +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. + +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.” + + + + +BOOK THIRD—THE FASCINATION + + + + +I. +“My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +The conversation on Yeobright had been started by a distant view of the +young man rambling leisurely across the heath before them. + +“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.” + +“Well, ’a can’t keep a diment shop here,” said Sam. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Ay, sure, if you will,” said Sam. + +“About me.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“So ’tis; so ’tis!” + +“No, no—you are wrong; it isn’t.” + +“Beg your pardon, we thought that was your maning?” + +“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.” + +“True; a sight different,” said Fairway. + +“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—” + +“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.” + +And Clym resumed his walk across the heath. + +“He’ll never carry it out in the world,” said Fairway. “In a few weeks +he’ll learn to see things otherwise.” + +“’Tis good-hearted of the young man,” said another. “But, for my part, +I think he had better mind his business.” + + + + +II. +The New Course Causes Disappointment + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I am not going back to Paris again, Mother,” he said. “At least, in my +old capacity. I have given up the business.” + +Mrs. Yeobright turned in pained surprise. “I thought something was +amiss, because of the boxes. I wonder you did not tell me sooner.” + +“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.” + +“I am astonished, Clym. How can you want to do better than you’ve been +doing?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Why can’t you do it as well as others?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“’Tis news you have brought us, then, Christian?” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“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?” + +“Well—what?” + +“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.” + +“Good heaven, how horrid!” said Mrs. Yeobright. + +“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.” + +“’Tis a cruel thing,” said Yeobright. + +“Yes,” said his mother. + +“The nation ought to look into it,” said Christian. “Here’s Humphrey +coming, I think.” + +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.” + +“Has this cruelly treated girl been able to walk home?” said Clym. + +“They say she got better, and went home very well. And now I’ve told it +I must be moving homeward myself.” + +“And I,” said Humphrey. “Truly now we shall see if there’s anything in +what folks say about her.” + +When they were gone into the heath again Yeobright said quietly to his +mother, “Do you think I have turned teacher too soon?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Yes, Sam: half a dozen have been telling us.” + +“Beauty?” said Clym. + +“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.” + +“Dark or fair?” + +“Now, though I’ve seen her twenty times, that’s a thing I cannot call +to mind.” + +“Darker than Tamsin,” murmured Mrs. Yeobright. + +“A woman who seems to care for nothing at all, as you may say.” + +“She is melancholy, then?” inquired Clym. + +“She mopes about by herself, and don’t mix in with the people.” + +“Is she a young lady inclined for adventures?” + +“Not to my knowledge.” + +“Doesn’t join in with the lads in their games, to get some sort of +excitement in this lonely place?” + +“No.” + +“Mumming, for instance?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Nonsense—that proves nothing either way,” said Yeobright. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Is this young witch-lady going to stay long at Mistover?” he asked. + +“I should say so.” + +“What a cruel shame to ill-use her, She must have suffered greatly—more +in mind than in body.” + +“’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.” + +“Do you think she would like to teach children?” said Clym. + +Sam shook his head. “Quite a different sort of body from that, I +reckon.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I’ll think of it,” said Yeobright; and they parted. + +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. + + + + +III. +The First Act in a Timeworn Drama + + +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. + +“You mean to call on Thomasin?” he inquired. + +“Yes. But you need not come this time,” said his mother. + +“In that case I’ll branch off here, Mother. I am going to Mistover.” + +Mrs. Yeobright turned to him inquiringly. + +“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.” + +“Must you go?” his mother asked. + +“I thought to.” + +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.” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Now, silence, folks,” said Fairway. + +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. + +“Haul!” said Fairway; and the men who held the rope began to gather it +over the wheel. + +“I think we’ve got sommat,” said one of the haulers-in. + +“Then pull steady,” said Fairway. + +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. + +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. + +“We’ve only got en by the edge of the hoop—steady, for God’s sake!” +said Fairway. + +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. + +“Damn the bucket!” said Fairway. + +“Lower again,” said Sam. + +“I’m as stiff as a ram’s horn stooping so long,” said Fairway, standing +up and stretching himself till his joints creaked. + +“Rest a few minutes, Timothy,” said Yeobright. “I’ll take your place.” + +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. + +“Tie a rope round him—it is dangerous!” cried a soft and anxious voice +somewhere above them. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Will it be possible to draw water here tonight?” she inquired. + +“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.” + +“No water,” she murmured, turning away. + +“I can send you up some from Blooms-End,” said Clym, coming forward and +raising his hat as the men retired. + +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. + +“Thank you; it will hardly be necessary,” she replied. + +“But if you have no water?” + +“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.” + +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. + +Clym ascended behind her, and noticed a circular burnt patch at the top +of the bank. “Ashes?” he said. + +“Yes,” said Eustacia. “We had a little bonfire here last Fifth of +November, and those are the marks of it.” + +On that spot had stood the fire she had kindled to attract Wildeve. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She shook her head. “I am managing to exist in a wilderness, but I +cannot drink from a pond,” she said. + +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.” + +“But, since I would not trouble the men to get it, I cannot in +conscience let you.” + +“I don’t mind the trouble at all.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“I can hold it,” said Eustacia; and he placed the rope in her hands, +going then to search for the end. + +“I suppose I may let it slip down?” she inquired. + +“I would advise you not to let it go far,” said Clym. “It will get much +heavier, you will find.” + +However, Eustacia had begun to pay out. While he was tying she cried, +“I cannot stop it!” + +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?” + +“Yes,” she replied. + +“Very much?” + +“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. + +“You should have let go,” said Yeobright. “Why didn’t you?” + +“You said I was to hold on.... This is the second time I have been +wounded today.” + +“Ah, yes; I have heard of it. I blush for my native Egdon. Was it a +serious injury you received in church, Miss Vye?” + +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. + +“There it is,” she said, putting her finger against the spot. + +“It was dastardly of the woman,” said Clym. “Will not Captain Vye get +her punished?” + +“He is gone from home on that very business. I did not know that I had +such a magic reputation.” + +“And you fainted?” said Clym, looking at the scarlet little puncture as +if he would like to kiss it and make it well. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I don’t quite feel anxious to. I have not much love for my +fellow-creatures. Sometimes I quite hate them.” + +“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.” + +“Do you mean Nature? I hate her already. But I shall be glad to hear +your scheme at any time.” + +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. + +“We have met before,” he said, regarding her with rather more interest +than was necessary. + +“I do not own it,” said Eustacia, with a repressed, still look. + +“But I may think what I like.” + +“Yes.” + +“You are lonely here.” + +“I cannot endure the heath, except in its purple season. The heath is a +cruel taskmaster to me.” + +“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.” + +“It is well enough for artists; but I never would learn to draw.” + +“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?” + +“I was not even aware there existed any such curious druidical stone. I +am aware that there are boulevards in Paris.” + +Yeobright looked thoughtfully on the ground. “That means much,” he +said. + +“It does indeed,” said Eustacia. + +“I remember when I had the same longing for town bustle. Five years of +a great city would be a perfect cure for that.” + +“Heaven send me such a cure! Now, Mr. Yeobright, I will go indoors and +plaster my wounded hand.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Where have you been, Clym?” she immediately said. “Why didn’t you tell +me that you were going away at this time?” + +“I have been on the heath.” + +“You’ll meet Eustacia Vye if you go up there.” + +Clym paused a minute. “Yes, I met her this evening,” he said, as though +it were spoken under the sheer necessity of preserving honesty. + +“I wondered if you had.” + +“It was no appointment.” + +“No; such meetings never are.” + +“But you are not angry, Mother?” + +“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.” + +“You deserve credit for the feeling, Mother. But I can assure you that +you need not be disturbed by it on my account.” + +“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.” + +“I had been studying all day.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Gave it away?” + +“Yes. To Miss Vye. She has a cannibal taste for such churchyard +furniture seemingly.” + +“Miss Vye was there too?” + +“Ay, ’a b’lieve she was.” + +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.” + +Yeobright made no reply; the current of her feeling was too pronounced +to admit it. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“Five days have we sat like this at meals with scarcely a word. What’s +the use of it, Mother?” + +“None,” said she, in a heart-swollen tone. “But there is only too good +a reason.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Clym looked hard at his mother. “You know that is not it,” he said. + +“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.” + +“How am I mistaken in her?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“What! you really mean to marry her?” + +“It would be premature to state that plainly. But consider what obvious +advantages there would be in doing it. She——” + +“Don’t suppose she has any money. She hasn’t a farthing.” + +“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——” + +“Oh, Clym!” + +“I shall ultimately, I hope, be at the head of one of the best schools +in the county.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Mother, that’s not true,” he firmly answered. + +“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!” + +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.” + +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. + + + + +IV. +An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“My Eustacia!” + +“Clym, dearest!” + +Such a situation had less than three months brought forth. + +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. + +“I began to wonder why you did not come,” said Yeobright, when she had +withdrawn a little from his embrace. + +“You said ten minutes after the first mark of shade on the edge of the +moon, and that’s what it is now.” + +“Well, let us only think that here we are.” + +Then, holding each other’s hand, they were again silent, and the shadow +on the moon’s disc grew a little larger. + +“Has it seemed long since you last saw me?” she asked. + +“It has seemed sad.” + +“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.” + +“I would rather bear tediousness, dear, than have time made short by +such means as have shortened mine.” + +“In what way is that? You have been thinking you wished you did not +love me.” + +“How can a man wish that, and yet love on? No, Eustacia.” + +“Men can, women cannot.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You don’t feel it now?” + +“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.” + +“You need not.” + +“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.” + +“In God’s mercy don’t talk so, Eustacia!” + +“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!” + +“That can never be. She knows of these meetings already.” + +“And she speaks against me?” + +“I will not say.” + +“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!” + +“Not I.” + +“It is your only chance. Many a man’s love has been a curse to him.” + +“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.” + +“Oh! ’tis your mother. Yes, that’s it! I knew it.” + +“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.” + +She started—then endeavoured to say calmly, “Cynics say that cures the +anxiety by curing the love.” + +“But you must answer me. Shall I claim you some day—I don’t mean at +once?” + +“I must think,” Eustacia murmured. “At present speak of Paris to me. Is +there any place like it on earth?” + +“It is very beautiful. But will you be mine?” + +“I will be nobody else’s in the world—does that satisfy you?” + +“Yes, for the present.” + +“Now tell me of the Tuileries, and the Louvre,” she continued +evasively. + +“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——” + +“And Versailles—the King’s Gallery is some such gorgeous room, is it +not?” + +“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.” + +“I should hate to think that!” + +“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.” + +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— + +“When used you to go to these places?” + +“On Sundays.” + +“Ah, yes. I dislike English Sundays. How I should chime in with their +manners over there! Dear Clym, you’ll go back again?” + +Clym shook his head, and looked at the eclipse. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But you can go in some other capacity.” + +“No. Besides, it would interfere with my scheme. Don’t press that, +Eustacia. Will you marry me?” + +“I cannot tell.” + +“Now—never mind Paris; it is no better than other spots. Promise, +sweet!” + +“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.” + +Clym brought her face towards his by a gentle pressure of the hand, and +kissed her. + +“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. + +“You are too mournful.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Spoken like a woman. And now I must soon leave you. I’ll walk with you +towards your house.” + +“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?” + +“I cannot recollect a clear dream of you.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +Then they lingeringly separated, and Clym descended towards Blooms-End. + +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! + +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. + + + + +V. +Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“We are,” said Yeobright. “But it may not be yet for a very long time.” + +“I should hardly think it _would_ be yet for a very long time! You will +take her to Paris, I suppose?” She spoke with weary hopelessness. + +“I am not going back to Paris.” + +“What will you do with a wife, then?” + +“Keep a school in Budmouth, as I have told you.” + +“That’s incredible! The place is overrun with schoolmasters. You have +no special qualifications. What possible chance is there for such as +you?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“She is a good girl.” + +“So you think. A Corfu bandmaster’s daughter! What has her life been? +Her surname even is not her true one.” + +“She is Captain Vye’s granddaughter, and her father merely took her +mother’s name. And she is a lady by instinct.” + +“They call him ‘captain,’ but anybody is captain.” + +“He was in the Royal Navy!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I do. And that woman is you.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You answer me; you think only of her. You stick to her in all things.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +She vanished in a hollow for a few moments, and then her whole form +unfolded itself from the brake. + +“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?” + +“She has not come,” he replied in a subdued tone. + +“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.” + +“It is indeed.” + +“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.” + +“But, darling, what shall we do?” said he. + +“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?” + +“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 _Carpe diem_ does not impress me today. Our present mode of +life must shortly be brought to an end.” + +“It is your mother!” + +“It is. I love you none the less in telling you; it is only right you +should know.” + +“I have feared my bliss,” she said, with the merest motion of her lips. +“It has been too intense and consuming.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I must part from you here, Clym,” said Eustacia. + +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. + +“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!” + +“They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of me.” + +“Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you—that you could not be +able to desert me anyhow!” + +Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was +passionate, and he cut the knot. + +“You shall be sure of me, darling,” he said, folding her in his arms. +“We will be married at once.” + +“O Clym!” + +“Do you agree to it?” + +“If—if we can.” + +“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.” + +“How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?” + +“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?” + +“I think he would—on the understanding that it should not last longer +than six months.” + +“I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens.” + +“If no misfortune happens,” she repeated slowly. + +“Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day.” + +And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It was +to be a fortnight from that time. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VI. +Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete + + +All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came from +Yeobright’s room to the ears of his mother downstairs. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting by +the window as usual when he came downstairs. + +“Mother, I am going to leave you,” he said, holding out his hand. + +“I thought you were, by your packing,” replied Mrs. Yeobright in a +voice from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded. + +“And you will part friends with me?” + +“Certainly, Clym.” + +“I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth.” + +“I thought you were going to be married.” + +“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.” + +“I do not think it likely I shall come to see you.” + +“Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia’s, Mother. Good-bye!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie,” said Mrs. +Yeobright, with a sad smile. “How is Damon?” + +“He is very well.” + +“Is he kind to you, Thomasin?” And Mrs. Yeobright observed her +narrowly. + +“Pretty fairly.” + +“Is that honestly said?” + +“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?” + +“Of course you ought. Have you never said a word on the matter?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I think I should like to have my share—that is, if you don’t mind.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“He was, I know.” + +“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!” + +“There are worse women in the world than Eustacia Vye.” + +“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!” + +“No,” said Thomasin eagerly. “It was before he knew me that he thought +of her, and it was nothing but a mere flirtation.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It is more noble in you that you did not.” + +“The more noble, the less wise.” + +“Forget it, and be soothed, dear Aunt. And I shall not leave you alone +for long. I shall come and see you every day.” + +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. + +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. + +“You come from Mistover?” said Wildeve. + +“Yes. They are taking in good things up there. Going to be a wedding.” +And the driver buried his face in his mug. + +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. + +“Do you mean Miss Vye?” he said. “How is it—that she can be married so +soon?” + +“By the will of God and a ready young man, I suppose.” + +“You don’t mean Mr. Yeobright?” + +“Yes. He has been creeping about with her all the spring.” + +“I suppose—she was immensely taken with him?” + +“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.” + +“Is she lively—is she glad? Going to be married so soon—well!” + +“It isn’t so very soon.” + +“No; not so very soon.” + +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. + +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. + + + + +VII. +The Morning and the Evening of a Day + + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“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!’” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Then it is done,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “Have they gone to their new +home?” + +“I don’t know. I have had no news from Mistover since Thomasin left to +go.” + +“You did not go with her?” said she, as if there might be good reasons +why. + +“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.” + +Mrs. Yeobright hesitated, and wondered if Wildeve knew what the +something was. “Did she tell you of this?” she inquired. + +“Not particularly. She casually dropped a remark about having arranged +to fetch some article or other.” + +“It is hardly necessary to send it. She can have it whenever she +chooses to come.” + +“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?” + +“Nothing worth troubling you with.” + +“One would think you doubted my honesty,” he said, with a laugh, though +his colour rose in a quick resentfulness frequent with him. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“What d’ye mean?” said Christian. + +“Why, the raffle. The one we go to every year. Going to the raffle as +well as ourselves?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +One or two promised; and Christian, diverging from his direct path, +turned round to the right with his companions towards the Quiet Woman. + +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. + +“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.” + +Fairway, Sam, and another placed their shillings on the table, and the +man turned to Christian. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You’ll anyhow have the same chance as the rest of us,” said Sam. + +“And the extra luck of being the last comer,” said another. + +“And I was born wi’ a caul, and perhaps can be no more ruined than +drowned?” Christian added, beginning to give way. + +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. + +“The gentleman looked like winning, as I said,” observed the chapman +blandly. “Take it, sir; the article is yours.” + +“Haw-haw-haw!” said Fairway. “I’m damned if this isn’t the quarest +start that ever I knowed!” + +“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 _my_ bedroom, and not lose my decency!” + +“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.” + +“Keep it, certainly,” said Wildeve, who had idly watched the scene from +a distance. + +The table was then cleared of the articles, and the men began to drink. + +“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. + +“What do you mean?” said Wildeve. + +“That’s a secret. Well, I must be going now.” He looked anxiously +towards Fairway. + +“Where are you going?” Wildeve asked. + +“To Mistover Knap. I have to see Mrs. Thomasin there—that’s all.” + +“I am going there, too, to fetch Mrs. Wildeve. We can walk together.” + +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?” + +He called to the pot-boy to bring him his hat, and said, “Now, +Christian, I am ready.” + +“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. + +“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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Yes, I had nothing to say,” observed Venn. In a few minutes he arose +and wished the company good night. + +Meanwhile Wildeve and Christian had plunged into the heath. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What are you rattling in there?” said Wildeve. + +“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. + +“They are a great deal in a small compass, You think?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Did you ever know anybody who was born to it besides myself?” + +“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.” + +“Ha—ha—splendid!” exclaimed Christian. “Go on—go on!” + +“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.” + +“Wonderful! wonderful!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Let us try four,” said Wildeve. They played for four. This time the +stakes were won by Wildeve. + +“Ah, those little accidents will, of course, sometimes happen, to the +luckiest man,” he observed. + +“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. + +“What! you have not put Mrs. Wildeve’s money there?” + +“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?” + +“None at all.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +At length Christian lost rapidly; and presently, to his horror, the +whole fifty guineas belonging to Thomasin had been handed over to his +adversary. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“Do? Live on just the same.” + +“I won’t live on just the same! I’ll die! I say you are a—a——” + +“A man sharper than my neighbour.” + +“Yes, a man sharper than my neighbour; a regular sharper!” + +“Poor chips-in-porridge, you are very unmannerly.” + +“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.” + +“How’s that?” + +“Because I had to gie fifty of ’em to him. Mrs. Yeobright said so.” + +“Oh?... Well, ’twould have been more graceful of her to have given them +to his wife Eustacia. But they are in my hands now.” + +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. + + + + +VIII. +A New Force Disturbs the Current + + +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. + +“You have been watching us from behind that bush?” said Wildeve. + +The reddleman nodded. “Down with your stake,” he said. “Or haven’t you +pluck enough to go on?” + +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. + +“A guinea that’s not your own,” said Venn sarcastically. + +“It is my own,” answered Wildeve haughtily. “It is my wife’s, and what +is hers is mine.” + +“Very well; let’s make a beginning.” He shook the box, and threw eight, +ten, and nine; the three casts amounted to twenty-seven. + +This encouraged Wildeve. He took the box; and his three casts amounted +to forty-five. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“‘Won back his coat,’” said Venn slily. + +Another throw, and the money went the same way. + +“‘Won back his hat,’” continued Venn. + +“Oh, oh!” said Wildeve. + +“‘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. + +“Five more!” shouted Wildeve, dashing down the money. “And three casts +be hanged—one shall decide.” + +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!” + +“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. + +Venn lifted the box, and behold a triplet of sixes was disclosed. + +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. + +“It is all over, then?” said Venn. + +“No, no!” cried Wildeve. “I mean to have another chance yet. I must!” + +“But, my good man, what have you done with the dice?” + +“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.” + +Wildeve snatched up the lantern and began anxiously prowling among the +furze and fern. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Never mind,” said Wildeve; “let’s play with one.” + +“Agreed,” said Venn. + +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. + +“What’s that?” he suddenly exclaimed, hearing a rustle; and they both +looked up. + +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. + +“Hoosh!” said Wildeve, and the whole forty or fifty animals at once +turned and galloped away. Play was again resumed. + +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. + +“What the infernal!” he shrieked. “Now, what shall we do? Perhaps I +have thrown six—have you any matches?” + +“None,” said Venn. + +“Christian had some—I wonder where he is. Christian!” + +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. + +“Ah—glowworms,” said Wildeve. “Wait a minute. We can continue the +game.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +Wildeve had lifted the box as soon as the lights were obtained, and the +solitary die proclaimed that the game was still against him. + +“I won’t play any more—you’ve been tampering with the dice,” he +shouted. + +“How—when they were your own?” said the reddleman. + +“We’ll change the game: the lowest point shall win the stake—it may cut +off my ill luck. Do you refuse?” + +“No—go on,” said Venn. + +“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. + +“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. + +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.” + +He probed the glowworms with a bit of stick, and rolled them over, till +the bright side of their tails was upwards. + +“There’s light enough. Throw on,” said Venn. + +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. + +He threw ace also. + +“O!” said Wildeve. “Curse me!” + +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. + +“I’ve thrown nothing at all,” he said. + +“Serves me right—I split the die with my teeth. Here—take your money. +Blank is less than one.” + +“I don’t wish it.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“No. But she will be leaving soon. You may possibly meet her at the +corner.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +BOOK FOURTH—THE CLOSED DOOR + + + + +I. +The Rencounter by the Pool + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What, is he going to keep them?” Mrs. Yeobright cried. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The mother-in-law was the first to speak. “I was coming to see you,” +she said. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“A gift?” + +“I mean money!” + +“What—I myself?” + +“Well, I meant yourself, privately—though I was not going to put it in +that way.” + +“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. + +“I simply ask the question,” said Mrs. Yeobright. “I have been——” + +“You ought to have better opinions of me—I feared you were against me +from the first!” exclaimed Eustacia. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _No_. 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.” + +“Injure you? Do you think I am an evil-disposed person?” + +“You injured me before my marriage, and you have now suspected me of +secretly favouring another man for money!” + +“I could not help what I thought. But I have never spoken of you +outside my house.” + +“You spoke of me within it, to Clym, and you could not do worse.” + +“I did my duty.” + +“And I’ll do mine.” + +“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!” + +“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?” + +Mrs. Yeobright gave back heat for heat. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“I have done nothing. This audacity from a young woman is more than I +can bear.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +The excited mother then withdrew, and Eustacia, panting, stood looking +into the pool. + + + + +II. +He Is Set upon by Adversities but He Sings a Song + + +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. + +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. + +“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— + +“I have seen your mother; and I will never see her again!” + +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. + +“Why is this?” he asked. + +“I cannot tell—I cannot remember. I met your mother. And I will never +meet her again.” + +“Why?” + +“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!” + +“How could she have asked you that?” + +“She did.” + +“Then there must have been some meaning in it. What did my mother say +besides?” + +“I don’t know what she said, except in so far as this, that we both +said words which can never be forgiven!” + +“Oh, there must be some misapprehension. Whose fault was it that her +meaning was not made clear?” + +“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.” + +“But I have quite given up that idea,” said Yeobright, with surprise. +“Surely I never led you to expect such a thing?” + +“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?” + +“Well, there are things which are placed beyond the pale of discussion; +and I thought this was specially so, and by mutual agreement.” + +“Clym, I am unhappy at what I hear,” she said in a low voice; and her +eyes drooped, and she turned away. + +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. + +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. + +“Then this is what my mother meant,” exclaimed Clym. “Thomasin, do you +know that they have had a bitter quarrel?” + +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.” + +“The worst thing I dreaded has come to pass. Was Mother much disturbed +when she came to you, Thomasin?” + +“Yes.” + +“Very much indeed?” + +“Yes.” + +Clym leant his elbow upon the post of the garden gate, and covered his +eyes with his hand. + +“Don’t trouble about it, Clym. They may get to be friends.” + +He shook his head. “Not two people with inflammable natures like +theirs. Well, what must be will be.” + +“One thing is cheerful in it—the guineas are not lost.” + +“I would rather have lost them twice over than have had this happen.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Yes, I could,” said Yeobright musingly. “How much do you get for +cutting these faggots?” + +“Half-a-crown a hundred, and in these long days I can live very well on +the wages.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I fear that will never be,” she said, looking afar with her beautiful +stormy eyes. “How _can_ you say ‘I am happier,’ and nothing changed?” + +“It arises from my having at last discovered something I can do, and +get a living at, in this time of misfortune.” + +“Yes?” + +“I am going to be a furze- and turf-cutter.” + +“No, Clym!” she said, the slight hopefulness previously apparent in her +face going off again, and leaving her worse than before. + +“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?” + +“But my grandfather offers to assist us, if we require assistance.” + +“We don’t require it. If I go furze-cutting we shall be fairly well +off.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + +“Le point du jour +A nos bosquets rend toute leur parure; +Flore est plus belle à son retour; +L’oiseau reprend doux chant d’amour; +Tout célèbre dans la nature +Le point du jour. + +“Le point du jour +Cause parfois, cause douleur extrême; +Que l’espace des nuits est court +Pour le berger brûlant d’amour, +Forcé de quitter ce qu’il aime +Au point du jour.” + + +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. + +“I would starve rather than do it!” she exclaimed vehemently. “And you +can sing! I will go and live with my grandfather again!” + +“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?” + +“Dearest, you must not question me unpleasantly, or it may make me not +love you.” + +“Do you believe it possible that I would run the risk of doing that?” + +“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!” + +“I know what that tone means.” + +“What tone?” + +“The tone in which you said, ‘Your wife indeed.’ It meant, ‘Your wife, +worse luck.’” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“You are my husband. Does not that content you?” + +“Not unless you are my wife without regret.” + +“I cannot answer you. I remember saying that I should be a serious +matter on your hands.” + +“Yes, I saw that.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“You sigh, dear, as if you were sorry for it; and that’s a hopeful +sign.” + +“No. I don’t sigh for that. There are other things for me to sigh for, +or any other woman in my place.” + +“That your chances in life are ruined by marrying in haste an +unfortunate man?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“I have still some tenderness left for you.” + +“Your words have no longer their old flavour. And so love dies with +good fortune!” + +“I cannot listen to this, Clym—it will end bitterly,” she said in a +broken voice. “I will go home.” + + + + +III. +She Goes Out to Battle against Depression + + +A few days later, before the month of August had expired, Eustacia and +Yeobright sat together at their early dinner. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Yes,” she said, sobbing. + +“And now I am a poor fellow in brown leather.” + +“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.” + +“To dance?” + +“Why not? You can sing.” + +“Well, well, as you will. Must I come to fetch you?” + +“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.” + +“And can you cling to gaiety so eagerly as to walk all the way to a +village festival in search of it?” + +“Now, you don’t like my going alone! Clym, you are not jealous?” + +“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?” + +“Don’t think like it. Let me go, and don’t take all my spirits away!” + +“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. + +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?” + +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. + +Suddenly she aroused herself and exclaimed, “But I’ll shake it off. +Yes, I _will_ 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Before she could speak he whispered, “Do you like dancing as much as +ever?” + +“I think I do,” she replied in a low voice. + +“Will you dance with me?” + +“It would be a great change for me; but will it not seem strange?” + +“What strangeness can there be in relations dancing together?” + +“Ah—yes, relations. Perhaps none.” + +“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.” + +She did as he suggested; and the act was a tacit acknowledgment that +she accepted his offer. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“The dance and the walking have tired you?” he said tenderly. + +“No; not greatly.” + +“It is strange that we should have met here of all places, after +missing each other so long.” + +“We have missed because we tried to miss, I suppose.” + +“Yes. But you began that proceeding—by breaking a promise.” + +“It is scarcely worth while to talk of that now. We have formed other +ties since then—you no less than I.” + +“I am sorry to hear that your husband is ill.” + +“He is not ill—only incapacitated.” + +“Yes—that is what I mean. I sincerely sympathize with you in your +trouble. Fate has treated you cruelly.” + +She was silent awhile. “Have you heard that he has chosen to work as a +furze-cutter?” she said in a low, mournful voice. + +“It has been mentioned to me,” answered Wildeve hesitatingly. “But I +hardly believed it.” + +“It is true. What do you think of me as a furze-cutter’s wife?” + +“I think the same as ever of you, Eustacia. Nothing of that sort can +degrade you—you ennoble the occupation of your husband.” + +“I wish I could feel it.” + +“Is there any chance of Mr. Yeobright getting better?” + +“He thinks so. I doubt it.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“You do not intend to walk home by yourself?” he asked. + +“O yes,” said Eustacia. “What could hurt me on this heath, who have +nothing?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“And the other is my greatest enemy,” said Wildeve. + +“It looks like Diggory Venn.” + +“That is the man.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Very well,” she whispered gloomily. “Leave me before they come up.” + +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. + +“My journey ends here for tonight, reddleman,” said Yeobright as soon +as he perceived her. “I turn back with this lady. Good night.” + +“Good night, Mr. Yeobright,” said Venn. “I hope to see you better +soon.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Did he wear a light wideawake?” + +“Yes.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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?” + +“O, I have not bought it, after all. The man asks too much.” + +“But somebody saw you at Throope Corner leading it home—a beauty, with +a white face and a mane as black as night.” + +“Ah!” said Wildeve, fixing his eyes upon her; “who told you that?” + +“Venn the reddleman.” + +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. + + + + +IV. +Rough Coercion Is Employed + + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I am warm,” said Eustacia. “I think I will go into the air for a few +minutes.” + +“Shall I go with you?” + +“O no. I am only going to the gate.” + +She arose, but before she had time to get out of the room a loud +rapping began upon the front door. + +“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. + +“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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +“Damn him!” said Wildeve. “He has been watching me again.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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. + +“Your visits would make Wildeve walk straighter than he is inclined to +do, and might prevent unhappiness down the heath.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“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.” + +“Then there _was_ an understanding between him and Clym’s wife when he +made a fool of Thomasin!” + +“We’ll hope there’s no understanding now.” + +“And our hope will probably be very vain. O Clym! O Thomasin!” + +“There’s no harm done yet. In fact, I’ve persuaded Wildeve to mind his +own business.” + +“How?” + +“O, not by talking—by a plan of mine called the silent system.” + +“I hope you’ll succeed.” + +“I shall if you help me by calling and making friends with your son. +You’ll have a chance then of using your eyes.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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. + +“You seem to take a very mild interest in what I propose, little or +much,” said Clym, with tolerable warmth. + +“You mistake me,” she answered, reviving at his reproach. “I am only +thinking.” + +“What of?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What have you to blame yourself about?” + +“She is getting old, and her life is lonely, and I am her only son.” + +“She has Thomasin.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“You never distinctly told me what did pass between you.” + +“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——” + +“Three people.” + +“Five,” Eustacia thought; but she kept that in. + + + + +V. +The Journey across the Heath + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The labourer pointed out the direction, and added, “Do you see that +furze-cutter, ma’am, going up that footpath yond?” + +Mrs. Yeobright strained her eyes, and at last said that she did +perceive him. + +“Well, if you follow him you can make no mistake. He’s going to the +same place, ma’am.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VI. +A Conjuncture, and Its Result upon the Pedestrian + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I hope you reached home safely?” said Wildeve. + +“O yes,” she carelessly returned. + +“And were you not tired the next day? I feared you might be.” + +“I was rather. You need not speak low—nobody will over-hear us. My +small servant is gone on an errand to the village.” + +“Then Clym is not at home?” + +“Yes, he is.” + +“O! I thought that perhaps you had locked the door because you were +alone and were afraid of tramps.” + +“No—here is my husband.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Why is he sleeping there?” said Wildeve in low tones. + +“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.” + +“Why does he go out at all!” Wildeve whispered. + +“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.” + +“The fates have not been kind to you, Eustacia Yeobright.” + +“I have nothing to thank them for.” + +“Nor has he—except for their one great gift to him.” + +“What’s that?” + +Wildeve looked her in the eyes. + +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.” + +“I can understand content in such a case—though how the outward +situation can attract him puzzles me.” + +“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.” + +“I am glad to hear that he’s so grand in character as that.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And you only married him on that account?” + +“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.” + +“You have dropped into your old mournful key.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“Damon, what is the matter with you, that you speak like that?” she +asked, raising her deep shady eyes to his. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +Her countenance changed. First she became crimson, and then the red +subsided till it even partially left her lips. + +“Shall I go away?” said Wildeve, standing up. + +“I hardly know.” + +“Who is it?” + +“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.” + +“I am in your hands. If you think she had better not see me here I’ll +go into the next room.” + +“Well, yes—go.” + +Wildeve at once withdrew; but before he had been half a minute in the +adjoining apartment Eustacia came after him. + +“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!” + +Mrs. Yeobright knocked again more loudly. + +“Her knocking will, in all likelihood, awaken him,” continued Eustacia, +“and then he will let her in himself. Ah—listen.” + +They could hear Clym moving in the other room, as if disturbed by the +knocking, and he uttered the word “Mother.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Good-bye,” said Wildeve. “I have had all I came for, and I am +satisfied.” + +“What was it?” + +“A sight of you. Upon my eternal honour I came for no more.” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“No, he never comes; nor my son either, nor anybody.” + +“What have made you so down? Have you seen a ooser?” + +“I have seen what’s worse—a woman’s face looking at me through a +windowpane.” + +“Is that a bad sight?” + +“Yes. It is always a bad sight to see a woman looking out at a weary +wayfarer and not letting her in.” + +“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.” + +...“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!” + +“What is it you say?” + +“Never again—never! Not even if they send for me!” + +“You must be a very curious woman to talk like that.” + +“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.” + +“I hope she won’t; because ’tis very bad to talk nonsense.” + +“Yes, child; it is nonsense, I suppose. Are you not nearly spent with +the heat?” + +“Yes. But not so much as you be.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Your face is white and wet, and your head is hanging-down-like.” + +“Ah, I am exhausted from inside.” + +“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. + +“Because I have a burden which is more than I can bear.” + +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.” + +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?” + +“Not always.” Her voice was now so low as to be scarcely above a +whisper. + +“You will go to sleep there, I suppose, won’t you? You have shut your +eyes already.” + +“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?” + +“Rimsmoor Pond is, but Oker’s Pool isn’t, because he is deep, and is +never dry—’tis just over there.” + +“Is the water clear?” + +“Yes, middling—except where the heath-croppers walk into it.” + +“Then, take this, and go as fast as you can, and dip me up the clearest +you can find. I am very faint.” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“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?” + +Mrs. Yeobright made no reply. + +“What shall I tell Mother?” the boy continued. + +“Tell her you have seen a broken-hearted woman cast off by her son.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VII. +The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends + + +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. + +“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.” + +“I thought you had been dreaming,” said she. + +“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?” + +“Half-past two.” + +“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.” + +“Ann is not come back from the village, and I thought I would let you +sleep on till she returned.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“I cannot tell you,” she said heavily. “I wish we didn’t live here, +Clym. The world seems all wrong in this place.” + +“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.” + +“I don’t like you going tonight.” + +“Why not tonight?” + +“Something may be said which will terribly injure me.” + +“My mother is not vindictive,” said Clym, his colour faintly rising. + +“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.” + +“Why do you want to do that at this particular time, when at every +previous time that I have proposed it you have refused?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I could even go with you now?” + +“You could scarcely walk there and back without a longer rest than I +shall take. No, not tonight, Eustacia.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I know what it is,” cried Sam. “She has been stung by an adder!” + +“Yes,” said Clym instantly. “I remember when I was a child seeing just +such a bite. O, my poor mother!” + +“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.” + +“’Tis an old remedy,” said Clym distrustfully, “and I have doubts about +it. But we can do nothing else till the doctor comes.” + +“’Tis a sure cure,” said Olly Dowden, with emphasis. “I’ve used it when +I used to go out nursing.” + +“Then we must pray for daylight, to catch them,” said Clym gloomily. + +“I will see what I can do,” said Sam. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Even such an ignorant fellow as I should know better than do that,” +said Sam. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +VIII. +Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“No,” said Eustacia blankly. + +“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.” + +Eustacia stood motionless awhile. “How long has he known of this?” she +asked. + +“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!” + +“In what way?” she said, lifting her eyes in apparent calmness. + +“Why, in not sticking to him when you had him.” + +“Had him, indeed!” + +“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?” + +Eustacia made no reply, but she looked as if she could say as much upon +that subject as he if she chose. + +“And how is your poor purblind husband?” continued the old man. “Not a +bad fellow either, as far as he goes.” + +“He is quite well.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“He is paid for his pastime, isn’t he? Three shillings a hundred, I +heard.” + +“Clym has money,” she said, colouring, “but he likes to earn a little.” + +“Very well; good night.” And the captain drove on. + +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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“How did you come here?” she said in her clear low tone. “I thought you +were at home.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“How could that be?” + +“By not letting in Mrs. Yeobright.” + +“I hope that visit of mine did you no harm.” + +“None. It was not your fault,” she said quietly. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +At this Eustacia said, with slumbering mischievousness, “What, would +you exchange with him—your fortune for me?” + +“I certainly would,” said Wildeve. + +“As we are imagining what is impossible and absurd, suppose we change +the subject?” + +“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.” + +“Travel? What a bright idea! Where will you go to?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Yes. In my opinion it is the central beauty-spot of the world.” + +“And in mine! And Thomasin will go with you?” + +“Yes, if she cares to. She may prefer to stay at home.” + +“So you will be going about, and I shall be staying here!” + +“I suppose you will. But we know whose fault that is.” + +“I am not blaming you,” she said quickly. + +“Oh, I thought you were. If ever you _should_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“It is my husband and his mother,” she whispered in an agitated voice. +“What can it mean? Will you step forward and tell me?” + +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. + +“It is a serious case,” said Wildeve. + +From their position they could hear what was proceeding inside. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Oh, what is it?” whispered Eustacia. + +“’Twas Thomasin who spoke,” said Wildeve. “Then they have fetched her. +I wonder if I had better go in—yet it might do harm.” + +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?” + +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.” + +Then there was a weeping of women, then waiting, then hushed +exclamations, then a strange gasping sound, then a painful stillness. + +“It is all over,” said the doctor. + +Further back in the hut the cotters whispered, “Mrs. Yeobright is +dead.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +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.” + +“Was she not admitted to your house after all?” Wildeve inquired. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +BOOK FIFTH—THE DISCOVERY + + + + +I. +“Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery” + + +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. + +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?” + +“He is better, though still very unwell, Humphrey,” replied Eustacia. + +“Is he light-headed, ma’am?” + +“No. He is quite sensible now.” + +“Do he rave about his mother just the same, poor fellow?” continued +Humphrey. + +“Just as much, though not quite so wildly,” she said in a low voice. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Is it you, Eustacia?” he said as she sat down. + +“Yes, Clym. I have been down to the gate. The moon is shining +beautifully, and there is not a leaf stirring.” + +“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!” + +“Why do you say so?” + +“I cannot help feeling that I did my best to kill her.” + +“No, Clym.” + +“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.” + +There escaped from Eustacia one of those shivering sighs which used to +shake her like a pestilent blast. She had not yet told. + +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!” + +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.” + +“You give yourself up too much to this wearying despair,” said +Eustacia. “Other men’s mothers have died.” + +“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.” + +“She sinned against you, I think.” + +“No, she did not. I committed the guilt; and may the whole burden be +upon my head!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I think I can assure you that she knew better at last,” said Thomasin. +The pallid Eustacia said nothing. + +“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?” + +“A week, I think.” + +“And then I became calm.” + +“Yes, for four days.” + +“And now I have left off being calm.” + +“But try to be quiet—please do, and you will soon be strong. If you +could remove that impression from your mind—” + +“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?” + +“Yes.” + +“It would be better for you, Eustacia, if I were to die?” + +“Don’t press such a question, dear Clym.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“How did you get here tonight, Thomasin?” said Eustacia. + +“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.” + +Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had +come, and was waiting outside with his horse and gig. + +“Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes,” said Thomasin. + +“I will run down myself,” said Eustacia. + +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?” + +“I have not yet told him,” she replied in a whisper. + +“Then don’t do so till he is well—it will be fatal. You are ill +yourself.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“Well, wait till he is better, and trust to chance. And when you tell, +you must only tell part—for his own sake.” + +“Which part should I keep back?” + +Wildeve paused. “That I was in the house at the time,” he said in a low +tone. + +“Yes; it must be concealed, seeing what has been whispered. How much +easier are hasty actions than speeches that will excuse them!” + +“If he were only to die—” Wildeve murmured. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +II. +A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding + + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Yes, Mister Clym.” + +“Have you dug up the potatoes and other roots?” + +“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.” + +“And she is getting on well, you say?” + +“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.” + +“Christian, now listen to me.” + +“Yes, sure, Mr. Yeobright.” + +“Did you see my mother the day before she died?” + +“No, I did not.” + +Yeobright’s face expressed disappointment. + +“But I zeed her the morning of the same day she died.” + +Clym’s look lighted up. “That’s nearer still to my meaning,” he said. + +“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.’” + +“See whom?” + +“See you. She was going to your house, you understand.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, Mister Clym. She didn’t say it to me, though I think she did to +one here and there.” + +“Do you know one person to whom she spoke of it?” + +“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—” + +“Yes, when was that?” + +“Last summer, in my dream.” + +“Pooh! Who’s the man?” + +“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.” + +“I must see Venn—I wish I had known it before,” said Clym anxiously. “I +wonder why he has not come to tell me?” + +“He went out of Egdon Heath the next day, so would not be likely to +know you wanted him.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Search the heath when you will, so that you bring him soon. Bring him +tomorrow, if you can.” + +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. + +“Inquire as much as you can tomorrow without neglecting your work,” +said Yeobright. “Don’t come again till you have found him.” + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +Yeobright opened it, and Venn was standing before him. + +“Good morning,” said the reddleman. “Is Mrs. Yeobright at home?” + +Yeobright looked upon the ground. “Then you have not seen Christian or +any of the Egdon folks?” he said. + +“No. I have only just returned after a long stay away. I called here +the day before I left.” + +“And you have heard nothing?” + +“Nothing.” + +“My mother is—dead.” + +“Dead!” said Venn mechanically. + +“Her home now is where I shouldn’t mind having mine.” + +Venn regarded him, and then said, “If I didn’t see your face I could +never believe your words. Have you been ill?” + +“I had an illness.” + +“Well, the change! When I parted from her a month ago everything seemed +to say that she was going to begin a new life.” + +“And what seemed came true.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“How came she to die?” said Venn. + +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?” + +“I talked with her more than half an hour.” + +“About me?” + +“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.” + +“But why should she come to see me if she felt so bitterly against me? +There’s the mystery.” + +“Yet I know she quite forgave ’ee.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“You had it from her lips that I had _not_ ill-treated her; and at the +same time another had it from her lips that I _had_ 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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“You have not forgotten how you walked with the poor lady on that hot +day?” said Clym. + +“No,” said the boy. + +“And what she said to you?” + +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. + +“She was going to Alderworth when you first met her?” + +“No; she was coming away.” + +“That can’t be.” + +“Yes; she walked along with me. I was coming away, too.” + +“Then where did you first see her?” + +“At your house.” + +“Attend, and speak the truth!” said Clym sternly. + +“Yes, sir; at your house was where I seed her first.” + +Clym started up, and Susan smiled in an expectant way which did not +embellish her face; it seemed to mean, “Something sinister is coming!” + +“What did she do at my house?” + +“She went and sat under the trees at the Devil’s Bellows.” + +“Good God! this is all news to me!” + +“You never told me this before?” said Susan. + +“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.” + +“What did she do then?” said Yeobright. + +“Looked at a man who came up and went into your house.” + +“That was myself—a furze-cutter, with brambles in his hand.” + +“No; ’twas not you. ’Twas a gentleman. You had gone in afore.” + +“Who was he?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Now tell me what happened next.” + +“The poor lady went and knocked at your door, and the lady with black +hair looked out of the side window at her.” + +The boy’s mother turned to Clym and said, “This is something you didn’t +expect?” + +Yeobright took no more notice of her than if he had been of stone. “Go +on, go on,” he said hoarsely to the boy. + +“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.” + +“O!” murmured Clym, in a low tone, and bowed his head. “Let’s have +more,” he said. + +“She couldn’t talk much, and she couldn’t walk; and her face was, O so +queer!” + +“How was her face?” + +“Like yours is now.” + +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?” + +“Silence!” said Clym fiercely. And, turning to the boy, “And then you +left her to die?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +The child shrank away from the gaze of his questioner. + +“He said so,” answered the mother, “and Johnny’s a God-fearing boy and +tells no lies.” + +“‘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!” + +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. + + + + +III. +Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You know what is the matter,” he said huskily. “I see it in your +face.” + +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. + +“Speak to me,” said Yeobright peremptorily. + +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?” + +“Yes, you can listen to me. It seems that my wife is not very well?” + +“Why?” + +“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!” + +“O, that is ghastly!” + +“What?” + +“Your laugh.” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“How extraordinary!” + +“What do you mean?” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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—” + +“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?” + +“Kill you! Do you expect it?” + +“I do.” + +“Why?” + +“No less degree of rage against me will match your previous grief for +her.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“’Tis too much—but I must spare you.” + +“Poor charity.” + +“By my wretched soul you sting me, Eustacia! I can keep it up, and +hotly too. Now, then, madam, tell me his name!” + +“Never, I am resolved.” + +“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?” + +“I do not.” + +“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. + +“Unlock this!” + +“You have no right to say it. That’s mine.” + +Without another word he seized the desk and dashed it to the floor. The +hinge burst open, and a number of letters tumbled out. + +“Stay!” said Eustacia, stepping before him with more excitement than +she had hitherto shown. + +“Come, come! stand away! I must see them.” + +She looked at the letters as they lay, checked her feeling and moved +indifferently aside; when he gathered them up, and examined them. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Do you say it to me—do you?” she gasped. + +He searched further, but found nothing more. “What was in this letter?” +he said. + +“Ask the writer. Am I your hound that you should talk to me in this +way?” + +“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?” + +“I wouldn’t tell you after this, if I were as innocent as the sweetest +babe in heaven!” + +“Which you are not.” + +“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.” + +“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 _me_, had it been that +you wilfully took the sight away from these feeble eyes of mine, I +could have forgiven you. But _that’s_ too much for nature!” + +“Say no more. I will do without your pity. But I would have saved you +from uttering what you will regret.” + +“I am going away now. I shall leave you.” + +“You need not go, as I am going myself. You will keep just as far away +from me by staying here.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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 _her_. Best +natures commit bad faults sometimes, don’t they?—I think they do. Now I +will leave you—for ever and ever!” + +“Tell all, and I _will_ pity you. Was the man in the house with you +Wildeve?” + +“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.” + +“You need not go—I will go. You can stay here.” + +“No, I will dress, and then I will go.” + +“Where?” + +“Where I came from, or _else_where.” + +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.” + +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. + +The strings were tied; she turned from him. “Do you still prefer going +away yourself to my leaving you?” he inquired again. + +“I do.” + +“Very well—let it be. And when you will confess to the man I may pity +you.” + +She flung her shawl about her and went downstairs, leaving him standing +in the room. + +Eustacia had not long been gone when there came a knock at the door of +the bedroom; and Yeobright said, “Well?” + +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. + +“What a mockery!” said Clym. “This unhappy marriage of mine to be +perpetuated in that child’s name!” + + + + +IV. +The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One + + +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. + +“Captain Vye is not at home?” she said. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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!” + +“I did not, dear ma’am. Can I help you now?” + +“I am afraid not. I wish I could get into the house. I feel +giddy—that’s all.” + +“Lean on my arm, ma’am, till we get to the porch, and I will try to +open the door.” + +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. + +“Shall I get you something to eat and drink?” he said. + +“If you please, Charley. But I suppose there is no fire?” + +“I can light it, ma’am.” + +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.” + +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?” + +“Yes, if you like.” + +“Shall I go and bring the victuals now?” + +“Yes, do,” she murmured languidly. + +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. + +“Place it on the table,” she said. “I shall be ready soon.” + +He did so, and retired to the door; when, however, he perceived that +she did not move he came back a few steps. + +“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.” + +Eustacia sat up and poured out a cup of tea. “You are very kind to me, +Charley,” she murmured as she sipped. + +“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.” + +“How have I?” said Eustacia. + +“You let me hold your hand when you were a maiden at home.” + +“Ah, so I did. Why did I do that? My mind is lost—it had to do with the +mumming, had it not?” + +“Yes, you wanted to go in my place.” + +“I remember. I do indeed remember—too well!” + +She again became utterly downcast; and Charley, seeing that she was not +going to eat or drink any more, took away the tray. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She went downstairs to the door and beckoned to him. + +“You have taken them away?” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“Why did you do it?” + +“I saw you looking at them too long.” + +“What has that to do with it?” + +“You have been heart-broken all the morning, as if you did not want to +live.” + +“Well?” + +“And I could not bear to leave them in your way. There was meaning in +your look at them.” + +“Where are they now?” + +“Locked up.” + +“Where?” + +“In the stable.” + +“Give them to me.” + +“No, ma’am.” + +“You refuse?” + +“I do. I care too much for you to give ’em up.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Charley, no more of that. What do you mean to do about this you have +seen?” + +“Keep it close as night, if you promise not to think of it again.” + +“You need not fear. The moment has passed. I promise.” She then went +away, entered the house, and lay down. + +Later in the afternoon her grandfather returned. He was about to +question her categorically, but on looking at her he withheld his +words. + +“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.” + +He did not ask what it all meant, or why she had left her husband, but +ordered the room to be prepared. + + + + +V. +An Old Move Inadvertently Repeated + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Mrs. Wildeve and the nurse-girl,” said Charley. + +“The nurse is carrying the baby?” said Eustacia. + +“No, ’tis Mrs. Wildeve carrying that,” he answered, “and the nurse +walks behind carrying nothing.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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.” + +“Thank you,” she said hastily. “But I wish you to put it out now.” + +“It will soon burn down,” said Charley, rather disappointed. “Is it not +a pity to knock it out?” + +“I don’t know,” she musingly answered. + +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. + +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. + +While she stood she heard a sound. It was the splash of a stone in the +pond. + +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. + +There was a second splash into the pond. + +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. + +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. + +“I did not light it!” cried Eustacia quickly. “It was lit without my +knowledge. Don’t, don’t come over to me!” + +“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?” + +“I did not let in his mother; that’s how it is!” + +“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!” + +“No, no; not exactly—” + +“It has been pushed too far—it is killing you—I do think it!” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Not you. This place I live in.” + +“Ah, your generosity may naturally make you say that. But I am the +culprit. I should either have done more or nothing at all.” + +“In what way?” + +“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.” + +“We are each married to another person,” she said faintly; “and +assistance from you would have an evil sound—after—after—” + +“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?” + +“In getting away from here.” + +“Where do you wish to go to?” + +“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.” + +“Will it be safe to leave you there alone?” + +“Yes, yes. I know Budmouth well.” + +“Shall I go with you? I am rich now.” + +She was silent. + +“Say yes, sweet!” + +She was silent still. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I will look out every night at eight, and no signal shall escape me.” + +“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!” + +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. + + + + +VI. +Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Tamsin, have you heard that Eustacia is not with me now?” he said when +they had sat down again. + +“No,” said Thomasin, alarmed. + +“And not that I have left Alderworth?” + +“No. I never hear tidings from Alderworth unless you bring them. What +is the matter?” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Can a man be too cruel to his mother’s enemy?” + +“I can fancy so.” + +“Very well, then—I’ll admit that he can. But now what is to be done?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“You seem to wish to, and yet you have not sent to her.” + +“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?” + +“She might not have known that anything serious would come of it, and +perhaps she did not mean to keep Aunt out altogether.” + +“She says herself that she did not. But the fact remains that keep her +out she did.” + +“Believe her sorry, and send for her.” + +“How if she will not come?” + +“It will prove her guilty, by showing that it is her habit to nourish +enmity. But I do not think that for a moment.” + +“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?” + +Thomasin blushed a little. “No,” she said. “He is merely gone out for a +walk.” + +“Why didn’t he take you with him? The evening is fine. You want fresh +air as well as he.” + +“Oh, I don’t care for going anywhere; besides, there is baby.” + +“Yes, yes. Well, I have been thinking whether I should not consult your +husband about this as well as you,” said Clym steadily. + +“I fancy I would not,” she quickly answered. “It can do no good.” + +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. + +Clym, however, could make nothing of it, and he rose to depart, more in +doubt than when he came. + +“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.” + +“I will,” said Clym; “I don’t rejoice in my present state at all.” + +And he left her and climbed over the hill to Blooms-End. Before going +to bed he sat down and wrote the following letter:— + +MY DEAR EUSTACIA,—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, + + +CLYM. + + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +He looked towards her with pitying surprise. “What, do you like Egdon +Heath?” he said. + +“I like what I was born near to; I admire its grim old face.” + +“Pooh, my dear. You don’t know what you like.” + +“I am sure I do. There’s only one thing unpleasant about Egdon.” + +“What’s that?” + +“You never take me with you when you walk there. Why do you wander so +much in it yourself if you so dislike it?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +Wildeve frowned, afterwards saying, with a forced smile, “Well, what +wonderful discovery did you make?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps this is not the only time you have dogged my steps. Are you +trying to find out something bad about me?” + +“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.” + +“What _do_ you mean?” he impatiently asked. + +“They say—they say you used to go to Alderworth in the evenings, and it +puts into my mind what I have heard about—” + +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.” + +“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!” + +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.” + +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. + + + + +VII. +The Night of the Sixth of November + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Can I go, can I go?” she moaned. “He’s not _great_ 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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Did you notice, my dear, what Mrs. Eustacia wore this afternoon +besides the dark dress?” + +“A red ribbon round her neck.” + +“Anything else?” + +“No—except sandal-shoes.” + +“A red ribbon and sandal-shoes,” she said to herself. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +VIII. +Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Who’s there?” he cried. + +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!” + +He flushed hot with agitation. “Surely it is Eustacia!” he murmured. If +so, she had indeed come to him unawares. + +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. + +“Thomasin!” he exclaimed in an indescribable tone of disappointment. +“It is Thomasin, and on such a night as this! O, where is Eustacia?” + +Thomasin it was, wet, frightened, and panting. + +“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!” + +“What, what?” + +“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?” + +“No.” + +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.” + +“Then he was not absolutely gone when you left?” + +“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.” + +“I’ll go,” said Clym. “O, Eustacia!” + +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!” + +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. + +“Dry yourself,” he said. “I’ll go and get some more wood.” + +“No, no—don’t stay for that. I’ll make up the fire. Will you go at +once—please will you?” + +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. + +“Captain Vye?” he said to a dripping figure. + +“Is my granddaughter here?” said the captain. + +“No.” + +“Then where is she?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“But you ought to know—you are her husband.” + +“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.” + +“Well, she has left my house; she left about half an hour ago. Who’s +sitting there?” + +“My cousin Thomasin.” + +The captain bowed in a preoccupied way to her. “I only hope it is no +worse than an elopement,” he said. + +“Worse? What’s worse than the worst a wife can do?” + +“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.” + +“Pistols?” + +“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.” + +“Where are the pistols?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Where to?” + +“To Wildeve’s—that was her destination, depend upon it.” + +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!” + +“I am off now,” said Yeobright, stepping into the porch. + +“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.” + +“It will perhaps be best,” said Clym. “Thomasin, dry yourself, and be +as comfortable as you can.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Why, it is Diggory Venn’s van, surely!” she said. + +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. + +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. + +“I thought you went down the slope,” he said, without noticing her +face. “How do you come back here again?” + +“Diggory?” said Thomasin faintly. + +“Who are you?” said Venn, still unperceiving. “And why were you crying +so just now?” + +“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.” + +Venn then came nearer till he could see the illuminated side of her +form. + +“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?” + +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. + +“What is it?” he continued when they stood within. + +“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.” + +“Yes, of course. I will go with ’ee. But you came to me before this, +Mrs. Wildeve?” + +“I only came this minute.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps it was one of the heathfolk going home?” + +“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.” + +“It wasn’t I, then. My dress is not silk, you see.... Are we anywhere +in a line between Mistover and the inn?” + +“Well, yes; not far out.” + +“Ah, I wonder if it was she! Diggory, I must go at once!” + +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.” + +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.” + +“I will,” said Venn earnestly. “As if I could hurt anything belonging +to you!” + +“I only meant accidentally,” said Thomasin. + +“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. + +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. + +“You are sure the rain does not fall upon baby?” + +“Quite sure. May I ask how old he is, ma’am?” + +“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?” + +“A little over a quarter of a mile.” + +“Will you walk a little faster?” + +“I was afraid you could not keep up.” + +“I am very anxious to get there. Ah, there is a light from the window!” + +“’Tis not from the window. That’s a gig-lamp, to the best of my +belief.” + +“O!” said Thomasin in despair. “I wish I had been there sooner—give me +the baby, Diggory—you can go back now.” + +“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.” + +“But the light is at the inn, and there is no quag in front of that.” + +“No, the light is below the inn some two or three hundred yards.” + +“Never mind,” said Thomasin hurriedly. “Go towards the light, and not +towards the inn.” + +“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.” + +“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. + + + + +IX. +Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Eustacia?” said Wildeve. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Both started. “Good God! can it be she?” said Clym. + +“Why should it be she?” said Wildeve, in his alarm forgetting that he +had hitherto screened himself. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Now we must search the hole again,” said Venn. “A woman is in there +somewhere. Get a pole.” + +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. + +“Pull it forward,” said Venn, and they raked it in with the pole till +it was close to their feet. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Clym’s alive!” she exclaimed. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, how is it going on now?” said Venn in a whisper. + +“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.” + +“Ah! I thought as much when I hauled ’em up. And Mrs. Wildeve?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, ’tis not much. I have changed my things. This is only a little +dampness I’ve got coming through the rain again.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“What be they?” said Venn. + +“Poor master’s banknotes,” she answered. “They were found in his pocket +when they undressed him.” + +“Then he was not coming back again for some time?” said Venn. + +“That we shall never know,” said she. + +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. + +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?” + +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?” + +“I dare say you may see her,” said Diggory gravely. “But hadn’t you +better run and tell Captain Vye?” + +“Yes, yes. Only I do hope I shall see her just once again.” + +“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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +Nobody spoke, till at length Clym covered her and turned aside. “Now +come here,” he said. + +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. + +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.” + +“How?” said Venn. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Your aim has always been good,” said Venn. “Why should you say such +desperate things?” + +“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!” + + + + +BOOK SIXTH—AFTERCOURSES + + + + +I. +The Inevitable Movement Onward + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“O, how you frightened me!” she said to someone who had entered. “I +thought you were the ghost of yourself.” + +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? + +Yeobright went round to the door and entered. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“How did you manage to become white, Diggory?” Thomasin asked. + +“I turned so by degrees, ma’am.” + +“You look much better than ever you did before.” + +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— + +“What shall we have to frighten Thomasin’s baby with, now you have +become a human being again?” + +“Sit down, Diggory,” said Thomasin, “and stay to tea.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“I can say nothing against it,” she answered. “Our property does not +reach an inch further than the white palings.” + +“But you might not like to see a lot of folk going crazy round a stick, +under your very nose?” + +“I shall have no objection at all.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“How pretty you look today, Thomasin!” he said. “Is it because of the +Maypole?” + +“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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +She looked at him reproachfully. “You went away just when it began, +Clym,” she said. + +“Yes. I felt I could not join in. You went out with them, of course?” + +“No, I did not.” + +“You appeared to be dressed on purpose.” + +“Yes, but I could not go out alone; so many people were there. One is +there now.” + +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. + +“Mr. Venn,” said Thomasin. + +“You might have asked him to come in, I think, Tamsie. He has been very +kind to you first and last.” + +“I will now,” she said; and, acting on the impulse, went through the +wicket to where Venn stood under the Maypole. + +“It is Mr. Venn, I think?” she inquired. + +Venn started as if he had not seen her—artful man that he was—and said, +“Yes.” + +“Will you come in?” + +“I am afraid that I—” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“To see how pretty the Maypole looks in the moonlight?” + +“No. To look for a glove that was dropped by one of the maidens.” + +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. + +“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. + +“No,” he sighed. + +“And you will not come in, then?” + +“Not tonight, thank you, ma’am.” + +“Shall I lend you a lantern to look for the young person’s glove, Mr. +Venn?” + +“O no; it is not necessary, Mrs. Wildeve, thank you. The moon will rise +in a few minutes.” + +Thomasin went back to the porch. “Is he coming in?” said Clym, who had +been waiting where she had left him. + +“He would rather not tonight,” she said, and then passed by him into +the house; whereupon Clym too retired to his own rooms. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + + + + +II. +Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?” +inquired Thomasin. “It is the fellow to this one.” + +Rachel did not reply. + +“Why don’t you answer?” said her mistress. + +“I think it is lost, ma’am.” + +“Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once.” + +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.” + +“Who’s somebody?” + +“Mr. Venn.” + +“Did he know it was my glove?” + +“Yes. I told him.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and +handed the glove. + +“Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it.” + +“It is very good of you to say so.” + +“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.” + +“If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn’t have been +surprised.” + +“Ah, no,” she said quickly. “But men of your character are mostly so +independent.” + +“What is my character?” he asked. + +“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.” + +“Ah, how do you know that?” said Venn strategically. + +“Because,” said she, stopping to put the little girl, who had managed +to get herself upside down, right end up again, “because I do.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Yes, ’tis rather a rum course,” said Venn, in the bland tone of one +comfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome. + +“You, who used to be so nice!” + +“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. + +“Why?” she asked. + +“Because you be richer than you were at that time.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Thomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of a +not unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on. + +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. + + + + +III. +The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“By all means say on, Tamsie.” + +“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?” + +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?” + +“Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am, of +course,” he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift. + +“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?” + +“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!” + +“No, no,” she said hastily. “’Tis Mr. Venn.” + +Clym’s face suddenly became grave. + +“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!” + +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—” + +“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 _will_ say!” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don’t now.” + +“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.” + +“Neither could I,” said Clym. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Very well, then,” sighed Thomasin. “I will say no more.” + +“But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think.” + +“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. + +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. + +When next they met she said abruptly, “He is much more respectable now +than he was then!” + +“Who? O yes—Diggory Venn.” + +“Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman.” + +“Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don’t know all the particulars of my +mother’s wish. So you had better use your own discretion.” + +“You will always feel that I slighted your mother’s memory.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Have they?” said Clym abstractedly. + +“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.” + +“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?’” + +“No, Mr. Clym, don’t fancy that about driving two women to their +deaths. You shouldn’t say it.” + +“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?” + +“I’ll come and hear ’ee with all my heart.” + +“Thanks. ’Tis all I wish.” + +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. + +“I can guess,” he replied. + +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.” + +“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.”* + + [*] 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. + 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. + + + + +IV. +Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His +Vocation + + +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. + +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. + +“Waxing a bed-tick, souls?” said the newcomer. + +“Yes, Sam,” said Grandfer Cantle, as a man too busy to waste words. +“Shall I stretch this corner a shade tighter, Timothy?” + +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?” + +“’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. + +“Ah, to be sure; and a valuable one, ’a b’lieve.” + +“Beds be dear to fokes that don’t keep geese, bain’t they, Mister +Fairway?” said Christian, as to an omniscient being. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“Come, come. Never pitch yerself in such a low key as that, Christian; +you should try more,” said Fairway. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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 + +She cal′-led to′ her love′ +From the lat′-tice a-bove, +′O come in′ from the fog-gy fog′-gy dew′. + + +’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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“I’ve swallered several; and one had a tolerable quill,” said Sam +placidly from the corner. + +“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!” + +“O yes, it can soon be _done_,” said Fairway, as if something should be +added to make the statement complete. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits,” he said. “But I +might be too much like the skull at the banquet.” + +“No, no.” + +“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.” + +“Then I give in. Do whatever will be most comfortable to yourself.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Charley, I have not seen you for a length of time,” said Yeobright. +“Do you often walk this way?” + +“No,” the lad replied. “I don’t often come outside the bank.” + +“You were not at the Maypole.” + +“No,” said Charley, in the same listless tone. “I don’t care for that +sort of thing now.” + +“You rather liked Miss Eustacia, didn’t you?” Yeobright gently asked. +Eustacia had frequently told him of Charley’s romantic attachment. + +“Yes, very much. Ah, I wish—” + +“Yes?” + +“I wish, Mr. Yeobright, you could give me something to keep that once +belonged to her—if you don’t mind.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Come round this way,” said Clym. “My entrance is at the back for the +present.” + +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!” + +“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. + +“Charley, what are they doing?” said Clym. “My sight is weaker again +tonight, and the glass of this window is not good.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes. She do seem happy. She is red in the face, and laughing at +something Fairway has said to her. O my!” + +“What noise was that?” said Clym. + +“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.” + +“Do any of them seem to care about my not being there?” Clym asked. + +“No, not a bit in the world. Now they are all holding up their glasses +and drinking somebody’s health.” + +“I wonder if it is mine?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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 _not_ 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!” + +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. + +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:— + +“‘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.’” + +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE *** + +***** This file should be named 122-0.txt or 122-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/122/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +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. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +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-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm 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. + +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-tm 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-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +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-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm 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: + + 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 www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +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-tm License. + +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-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm 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." + +* 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-tm + 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-tm + works. + +* 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. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm 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-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +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-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +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. + +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-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +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-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm 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. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm 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-tm 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 + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +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. + +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 + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm 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. + +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 www.gutenberg.org/donate + +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. + +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. + +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 + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm 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. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +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. + + |