Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

  “Yes. In my opinion it is the central beauty-spot of the world.”

  “And in mine! And Thomasin will go with you?”

  “Yes, if she cares to. She may prefer to stay at home.”

  “So you will be going about, and I shall be staying here!”

  “I suppose you will. But we know whose fault that is.”

  “I am not blaming you,” she said quickly.

  “Oh, I thought you were. If ever you SHOULD be inclined to blame me, think of a certain evening by Rainbarrow, when you promised to meet me and did not. You sent me a letter; and my heart ached to read that as I hope yours never will. That was one point of divergence. I then did something in haste....But she is a good woman, and I will say no more.”

  “I know that the blame was on my side that time,” said Eustacia. “But it had not always been so. However, it is my misfortune to be too sudden in feeling. O, Damon, don’t reproach me any more — I can’t bear that.”

  They went on silently for a distance of two or three miles, when Eustacia said suddenly, “Haven’t you come out of your way, Mr. Wildeve?”

  “My way is anywhere tonight. I will go with you as far as the hill on which we can see Blooms-End, as it is getting late for you to be alone.”

  “Don’t trouble. I am not obliged to be out at all. I think I would rather you did not accompany me further. This sort of thing would have an odd look if known.”

  “Very well, I will leave you.” He took her hand unexpectedly, and kissed it — for the first time since her marriage. “What light is that on the hill?” he added, as it were to hide the caress.

  She looked, and saw a flickering firelight proceeding from the open side of a hovel a little way before them. The hovel, which she had hitherto always found empty, seemed to be inhabited now.

  “Since you have come so far,” said Eustacia, “will you see me safely past that hut? I thought I should have met Clym somewhere about here, but as he doesn’t appear I will hasten on and get to Blooms-End before he leaves.”

  They advanced to the turf-shed, and when they got near it the firelight and the lantern inside showed distinctly enough the form of a woman reclining on a bed of fern, a group of heath men and women standing around her. Eustacia did not recognize Mrs. Yeobright in the reclining figure, nor Clym as one of the standers-by till she came close. Then she quickly pressed her hand up on Wildeve’s arm and signified to him to come back from the open side of the shed into the shadow.

  “It is my husband and his mother,” she whispered in an agitated voice. “What can it mean? Will you step forward and tell me?”

  Wildeve left her side and went to the back wall of the hut. Presently Eustacia perceived that he was beckoning to her, and she advanced and joined him.

  “It is a serious case,” said Wildeve.

  From their position they could hear what was proceeding inside.

  “I cannot think where she could have been going,” said Clym to someone. “She had evidently walked a long way, but even when she was able to speak just now she would not tell me where. What do you really think of her?”

  “There is a great deal to fear,” was gravely answered, in a voice which Eustacia recognized as that of the only surgeon in the district. “She has suffered somewhat from the bite of the adder; but it is exhaustion which has overpowered her. My impression is that her walk must have been exceptionally long.”

  “I used to tell her not to overwalk herself this weather,” said Clym, with distress. “Do you think we did well in using the adder’s fat?”

  “Well, it is a very ancient remedy — the old remedy of the viper-catchers, I believe,” replied the doctor. “It is mentioned as an infallible ointment by Hoffman, Mead, and I think the Abbe Fontana. Undoubtedly it was as good a thing as you could do; though I question if some other oils would not have been equally efficacious.”

  “Come here, come here!” was then rapidly said in anxious female tones, and Clym and the doctor could be heard rushing forward from the back part of the shed to where Mrs. Yeobright lay.

  “Oh, what is it?” whispered Eustacia.

  “‘Twas Thomasin who spoke,” said Wildeve. “Then they have fetched her. I wonder if I had better go in — yet it might do harm.”

  For a long time there was utter silence among the group within; and it was broken at last by Clym saying, in an agonized voice, “O Doctor, what does it mean?”

  The doctor did not reply at once; ultimately he said, “She is sinking fast. Her heart was previously affected, and physical exhaustion has dealt the finishing blow.”

  Then there was a weeping of women, then waiting, then hushed exclamations, then a strange gasping sound, then a painful stillness.

  “It is all over,” said the doctor.

  Further back in the hut the cotters whispered, “Mrs. Yeobright is dead.”

  Almost at the same moment the two watchers observed the form of a small old-fashioned child entering at the open side of the shed. Susan Nunsuch, whose boy it was, went forward to the opening and silently beckoned to him to go back.

  “I’ve got something to tell ‘ee, Mother,” he cried in a shrill tone. “That woman asleep there walked along with me today; and she said I was to say that I had seed her, and she was a broken-hearted woman and cast off by her son, and then I came on home.”

  A confused sob as from a man was heard within, upon which Eustacia gasped faintly, “That’s Clym — I must go to him — yet dare I do it? No — come away!”

  When they had withdrawn from the neighbourhood of the shed she said huskily, “I am to blame for this. There is evil in store for me.”

  “Was she not admitted to your house after all?” Wildeve inquired.

  “No, and that’s where it all lies! Oh, what shall I do! I shall not intrude upon them — I shall go straight home. Damon, good-bye! I cannot speak to you any more now.”

  They parted company; and when Eustacia had reached the next hill she looked back. A melancholy procession was wending its way by the light of the lantern from the hut towards Blooms-End. Wildeve was nowhere to be seen.

  BOOK FIVE

  THE DISCOVERY

  CHAPTER 1

  ”Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery”

  One evening, about three weeks after the funeral of Mrs. Yeobright, when the silver face of the moon sent a bundle of beams directly upon the floor of Clym’s house at Alderworth, a woman came forth from within. She reclined over the garden gate as if to refresh herself awhile. The pale lunar touches which make beauties of hags lent divinity to this face, already beautiful.

  She had not long been there when a man came up the road and with some hesitation said to her, “How is he tonight, ma’am, if you please?”

  “He is better, though still very unwell, Humphrey,” replied Eustacia.

  “Is he light-headed, ma’am?”

  “No. He is quite sensible now.”

  “Do he rave about his mother just the same, poor fellow?” continued Humphrey.

  “Just as much, though not quite so wildly,” she said in a low voice.

  “It was very unfortunate, ma’am, that the boy Johnny should ever ha’ told him his mother’s dying words, about her being broken-hearted and cast off by her son. ‘Twas enough to upset any man alive.”

  Eustacia made no reply beyond that of a slight catch in her breath, as of one who fain would speak but could not; and Humphrey, declining her invitation to come in, went away.

  Eustacia turned, entered the house, and ascended to the front bedroom, where a shaded light was burning. In the bed lay Clym, pale, haggard, wide awake, tossing to one side and to the other, his eyes lit by a hot light, as if the fire in their pupils were burning up their substance.

  “Is it you, Eustacia?” he said as she sat down.

  “Yes, Clym. I have been down to the gate. The moon is shining beautifully, and there is not a leaf stirring.”

  “Shining, is it? What’s the moon to a man like me? Let it shine — l
et anything be, so that I never see another day!... Eustacia, I don’t know where to look — my thoughts go through me like swords. O, if any man wants to make himself immortal by painting a picture of wretchedness, let him come here!”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “I cannot help feeling that I did my best to kill her.”

  “No, Clym.”

  “Yes, it was so; it is useless to excuse me! My conduct to her was too hideous — I made no advances; and she could not bring herself to forgive me. Now she is dead! If I had only shown myself willing to make it up with her sooner, and we had been friends, and then she had died, it wouldn’t be so hard to bear. But I never went near her house, so she never came near mine, and didn’t know how welcome she would have been — that’s what troubles me. She did not know I was going to her house that very night, for she was too insensible to understand me. If she had only come to see me! I longed that she would. But it was not to be.”

  There escaped from Eustacia one of those shivering sighs which used to shake her like a pestilent blast. She had not yet told.

  But Yeobright was too deeply absorbed in the ramblings incidental to his remorseful state to notice her. During his illness he had been continually talking thus. Despair had been added to his original grief by the unfortunate disclosure of the boy who had received the last words of Mrs. Yeobright — words too bitterly uttered in an hour of misapprehension. Then his distress had overwhelmed him, and he longed for death as a field labourer longs for the shade. It was the pitiful sight of a man standing in the very focus of sorrow. He continually bewailed his tardy journey to his mother’s house, because it was an error which could never be rectified, and insisted that he must have been horribly perverted by some fiend not to have thought before that it was his duty to go to her, since she did not come to him. He would ask Eustacia to agree with him in his self-condemnation; and when she, seared inwardly by a secret she dared not tell, declared that she could not give an opinion, he would say, “That’s because you didn’t know my mother’s nature. She was always ready to forgive if asked to do so; but I seemed to her to be as an obstinate child, and that made her unyielding. Yet not unyielding — she was proud and reserved, no more....Yes, I can understand why she held out against me so long. She was waiting for me. I dare say she said a hundred times in her sorrow, ‘What a return he makes for all the sacrifices I have made for him!’ I never went to her! When I set out to visit her it was too late. To think of that is nearly intolerable!”

  Sometimes his condition had been one of utter remorse, unsoftened by a single tear of pure sorrow: and then he writhed as he lay, fevered far more by thought than by physical ills. “If I could only get one assurance that she did not die in a belief that I was resentful,” he said one day when in this mood, “it would be better to think of than a hope of heaven. But that I cannot do.”

  “You give yourself up too much to this wearying despair,” said Eustacia. “Other men’s mothers have died.”

  “That doesn’t make the loss of mine less. Yet it is less the loss than the circumstances of the loss. I sinned against her, and on that account there is no light for me.”

  “She sinned against you, I think.”

  “No, she did not. I committed the guilt; and may the whole burden be upon my head!”

  “I think you might consider twice before you say that,” Eustacia replied. “Single men have, no doubt, a right to curse themselves as much as they please; but men with wives involve two in the doom they pray down.”

  “I am in too sorry a state to understand what you are refining on,” said the wretched man. “Day and night shout at me, ‘You have helped to kill her.’ But in loathing myself I may, I own, be unjust to you, my poor wife. Forgive me for it, Eustacia, for I scarcely know what I do.”

  Eustacia was always anxious to avoid the sight of her husband in such a state as this, which had become as dreadful to her as the trial scene was to Judas Iscariot. It brought before her eyes the spectre of a worn-out woman knocking at a door which she would not open; and she shrank from contemplating it. Yet it was better for Yeobright himself when he spoke openly of his sharp regret, for in silence he endured infinitely more, and would sometimes remain so long in a tense, brooding mood, consuming himself by the gnawing of his thought, that it was imperatively necessary to make him talk aloud, that his grief might in some degree expend itself in the effort.

  Eustacia had not been long indoors after her look at the moonlight when a soft footstep came up to the house, and Thomasin was announced by the woman downstairs.

  “Ah, Thomasin! Thank you for coming tonight,” said Clym when she entered the room. “Here am I, you see. Such a wretched spectacle am I, that I shrink from being seen by a single friend, and almost from you.”

  “You must not shrink from me, dear Clym,” said Thomasin earnestly, in that sweet voice of hers which came to a sufferer like fresh air into a Black Hole. “Nothing in you can ever shock me or drive me away. I have been here before, but you don’t remember it.”

  “Yes, I do; I am not delirious, Thomasin, nor have I been so at all. Don’t you believe that if they say so. I am only in great misery at what I have done, and that, with the weakness, makes me seem mad. But it has not upset my reason. Do you think I should remember all about my mother’s death if I were out of my mind? No such good luck. Two months and a half, Thomasin, the last of her life, did my poor mother live alone, distracted and mourning because of me; yet she was unvisited by me, though I was living only six miles off. Two months and a half — seventy-five days did the sun rise and set upon her in that deserted state which a dog didn’t deserve! Poor people who had nothing in common with her would have cared for her, and visited her had they known her sickness and loneliness; but I, who should have been all to her, stayed away like a cur. If there is any justice in God let Him kill me now. He has nearly blinded me, but that is not enough. If He would only strike me with more pain I would believe in Him forever!”

  “Hush, hush! O, pray, Clym, don’t, don’t say it!” implored Thomasin, affrighted into sobs and tears; while Eustacia, at the other side of the room, though her pale face remained calm, writhed in her chair. Clym went on without heeding his cousin.

  “But I am not worth receiving further proof even of Heaven’s reprobation. Do you think, Thomasin, that she knew me — that she did not die in that horrid mistaken notion about my not forgiving her, which I can’t tell you how she acquired? If you could only assure me of that! Do you think so, Eustacia? Do speak to me.”

  “I think I can assure you that she knew better at last,” said Thomasin. The pallid Eustacia said nothing.

  “Why didn’t she come to my house? I would have taken her in and showed her how I loved her in spite of all. But she never came; and I didn’t go to her, and she died on the heath like an animal kicked out, nobody to help her till it was too late. If you could have seen her, Thomasin, as I saw her — a poor dying woman, lying in the dark upon the bare ground, moaning, nobody near, believing she was utterly deserted by all the world, it would have moved you to anguish, it would have moved a brute. And this poor woman my mother! No wonder she said to the child, ‘You have seen a broken-hearted woman.’ What a state she must have been brought to, to say that! and who can have done it but I? It is too dreadful to think of, and I wish I could be punished more heavily than I am. How long was I what they called out of my senses?”

  “A week, I think.”

  “And then I became calm.”

  “Yes, for four days.”

  “And now I have left off being calm.”

  “But try to be quiet — please do, and you will soon be strong. If you could remove that impression from your mind — ”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “But I don’t want to get strong. What’s the use of my getting well? It would be better for me if I die, and it would certainly be better for Eustacia. Is Eustacia there?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be better for you, Eustacia,
if I were to die?”

  “Don’t press such a question, dear Clym.”

  “Well, it really is but a shadowy supposition; for unfortunately I am going to live. I feel myself getting better. Thomasin, how long are you going to stay at the inn, now that all this money has come to your husband?”

  “Another month or two, probably; until my illness is over. We cannot get off till then. I think it will be a month or more.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. Ah, Cousin Tamsie, you will get over your trouble — one little month will take you through it, and bring something to console you; but I shall never get over mine, and no consolation will come!”

  “Clym, you are unjust to yourself. Depend upon it, Aunt thought kindly of you. I know that, if she had lived, you would have been reconciled with her.”

  “But she didn’t come to see me, though I asked her, before I married, if she would come. Had she come, or had I gone there, she would never have died saying, ‘I am a broken-hearted woman, cast off by my son.’ My door has always been open to her — a welcome here has always awaited her. But that she never came to see.”

  “You had better not talk any more now, Clym,” said Eustacia faintly from the other part of the room, for the scene was growing intolerable to her.

  “Let me talk to you instead for the little time I shall be here,” Thomasin said soothingly. “Consider what a one-sided way you have of looking at the matter, Clym. When she said that to the little boy you had not found her and taken her into your arms; and it might have been uttered in a moment of bitterness. It was rather like Aunt to say things in haste. She sometimes used to speak so to me. Though she did not come I am convinced that she thought of coming to see you. Do you suppose a man’s mother could live two or three months without one forgiving thought? She forgave me; and why should she not have forgiven you?”