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 night-dress
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 as 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 ELSEwhere."
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-waggon. 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, red-headed lichens, stone
arrow-heads 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 spy-glass,
as she had been in the habit of doing before her marriage. One day
she saw, at a place where the high-road crossed the distant valley,
a heavily laden waggon 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 for 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
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."