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 treetops 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 groundwork 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, bumble-bees 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 tread.
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 hair-breadths 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 for ever. For ever - do you
hear? - for ever!"
"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. Often at their meetings a word or
a sigh escaped 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 wholehearted 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