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
footfall. 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,