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 mid-day. 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 fondlike 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. He might have been called the Rousseau of
Egdon.