by Thomas Hardy
VI
Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete
All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came fromYeobright's room to the ears of his mother downstairs.
Next morning he departed from the house and again proceeded across theheath. A long day's march was before him, his object being to securea dwelling to which he might take Eustacia when she became his wife.Such a house, small, secluded, and with its windows boarded up, he hadcasually observed a month earlier, about two miles beyond the villageof East Egdon, and six miles distant altogether; and thither hedirected his steps today.
The weather was far different from that of the evening before. Theyellow and vapoury sunset which had wrapped up Eustacia from hisparting gaze had presaged change. It was one of those not infrequentdays of an English June which are as wet and boisterous as November.The cold clouds hastened on in a body, as if painted on a movingslide. Vapours from other continents arrived upon the wind, whichcurled and parted round him as he walked on.
At length Clym reached the margin of a fir and beech plantation thathad been enclosed from heath land in the year of his birth. Herethe trees, laden heavily with their new and humid leaves, were nowsuffering more damage than during the highest winds of winter,when the boughs are especially disencumbered to do battle with thestorm. The wet young beeches were undergoing amputations, bruises,cripplings, and harsh lacerations, from which the wasting sap wouldbleed for many a day to come, and which would leave scars visible tillthe day of their burning. Each stem was wrenched at the root, whereit moved like a bone in its socket, and at every onset of the galeconvulsive sounds came from the branches, as if pain were felt. In aneighbouring brake a finch was trying to sing; but the wind blew underhis feathers till they stood on end, twisted round his little tail,and made him give up his song.
Yet a few yards to Yeobright's left, on the open heath, howineffectively gnashed the storm! Those gusts which tore the treesmerely waved the furze and heather in a light caress. Egdon was madefor such times as these.
Yeobright reached the empty house about mid-day. It was almost aslonely as that of Eustacia's grandfather, but the fact that it stoodnear a heath was disguised by a belt of firs which almost enclosedthe premises. He journeyed on about a mile further to the villagein which the owner lived, and, returning with him to the house,arrangements were completed, and the man undertook that one room atleast should be ready for occupation the next day. Clym's intentionwas to live there alone until Eustacia should join him on theirwedding day.
Then he turned to pursue his way homeward through the drizzle that hadso greatly transformed the scene. The ferns, among which he had lainin comfort yesterday, were dripping moisture from every frond, wettinghis legs through as he brushed past; and the fur of the rabbitsleaping before him was clotted into dark locks by the same waterysurrounding.
He reached home damp and weary enough after his ten-mile walk. Ithad hardly been a propitious beginning, but he had chosen his course,and would show no swerving. The evening and the following morningwere spent in concluding arrangements for his departure. To stay athome a minute longer than necessary after having once come to hisdetermination would be, he felt, only to give new pain to his motherby some word, look, or deed.
He had hired a conveyance and sent off his goods by two o'clock thatday. The next step was to get some furniture, which, after servingfor temporary use in the cottage, would be available for the houseat Budmouth when increased by goods of a better description. A martextensive enough for the purpose existed at Anglebury, some milesbeyond the spot chosen for his residence, and there he resolved topass the coming night.
It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting bythe window as usual when he came downstairs.
"Mother, I am going to leave you," he said, holding out his hand.
"I thought you were, by your packing," replied Mrs. Yeobright in avoice from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded.
"And you will part friends with me?"
"Certainly, Clym."
"I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth."
"I thought you were going to be married."
"And then--and then you must come and see us. You will understand mebetter after that, and our situation will not be so wretched as it isnow."
"I do not think it likely I shall come to see you."
"Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia's, mother. Good-bye!"
He kissed her cheek, and departed in great misery, which was severalhours in lessening itself to a controllable level. The position hadbeen such that nothing more could be said without, in the first place,breaking down a barrier; and that was not to be done.
No sooner had Yeobright gone from his mother's house than her facechanged its rigid aspect for one of blank despair. After a while shewept, and her tears brought some relief. During the rest of the dayshe did nothing but walk up and down the garden path in a statebordering on stupefaction. Night came, and with it but little rest.The next day, with an instinct to do something which should reduceprostration to mournfulness, she went to her son's room, and with herown hands arranged it in order, for an imaginary time when he shouldreturn again. She gave some attention to her flowers, but it wasperfunctorily bestowed, for they no longer charmed her.
It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paidher an unexpected visit. This was not the first meeting between therelatives since Thomasin's marriage; and past blunders having beenin a rough way rectified, they could always greet each other withpleasure and ease.
The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the doorbecame the young wife well. It illuminated her as her presenceilluminated the heath. In her movements, in her gaze, she remindedthe beholder of the feathered creatures who lived around her home.All similes and allegories concerning her began and ended with birds.There was as much variety in her motions as in their flight. When shewas musing she was a kestrel, which hangs in the air by an invisiblemotion of its wings. When she was in a high wind her light body wasblown against trees and banks like a heron's. When she was frightenedshe darted noiselessly like a kingfisher. When she was serene sheskimmed like a swallow, and that is how she was moving now.
"You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie," said Mrs.Yeobright, with a sad smile. "How is Damon?"
"He is very well."
"Is he kind to you, Thomasin?" And Mrs. Yeobright observed hernarrowly.
"Pretty fairly."
"Is that honestly said?"
"Yes, aunt. I would tell you if he were unkind." She added, blushing,and with hesitation, "He--I don't know if I ought to complain to youabout this, but I am not quite sure what to do. I want some money,you know, aunt--some to buy little things for myself--and he doesn'tgive me any. I don't like to ask him; and yet, perhaps, he doesn'tgive it me because he doesn't know. Ought I to mention it to him,aunt?"
"Of course you ought. Have you never said a word on the matter?"
"You see, I had some of my own," said Thomasin evasively, "and I havenot wanted any of his until lately. I did just say something about itlast week; but he seems--not to remember."
"He must be made to remember. You are aware that I have a little boxfull of spade-guineas, which your uncle put into my hands to dividebetween yourself and Clym whenever I chose. Perhaps the time has comewhen it should be done. They can be turned into sovereigns at anymoment."
"I think I should like to have my share--that is, if you don't mind."
"You shall, if necessary. But it is only proper that you should firsttell your husband distinctly that you are without any, and see what hewill do."
"Very well, I will... Aunt, I have heard about Clym. I know you arein trouble about him, and that's why I have come."
Mrs. Yeobright turned away, and her features worked in her attempt toconceal her feelings. Then she ceased to make any attempt, and said,weeping, "O Thomasin, do you think he hates me? How can he bear togrieve me so, when I have lived o
nly for him through all these years?"
"Hate you--no," said Thomasin soothingly. "It is only that he lovesher too well. Look at it quietly--do. It is not so very bad of him.Do you know, I thought it not the worst match he could have made.Miss Vye's family is a good one on her mother's side; and her fatherwas a romantic wanderer--a sort of Greek Ulysses."
"It is no use, Thomasin; it is no use. Your intention is good; butI will not trouble you to argue. I have gone through the whole thatcan be said on either side times, and many times. Clym and I havenot parted in anger; we have parted in a worse way. It is not apassionate quarrel that would have broken my heart; it is the steadyopposition and persistence in going wrong that he has shown. OThomasin, he was so good as a little boy--so tender and kind!"
"He was, I know."
"I did not think one whom I called mine would grow up to treat me likethis. He spoke to me as if I opposed him to injure him. As though Icould wish him ill!"
"There are worse women in the world than Eustacia Vye."
"There are too many better; that's the agony of it. It was she,Thomasin, and she only, who led your husband to act as he did: I wouldswear it!"
"No," said Thomasin eagerly. "It was before he knew me that hethought of her, and it was nothing but a mere flirtation."
"Very well; we will let it be so. There is little use in unravellingthat now. Sons must be blind if they will. Why is it that a womancan see from a distance what a man cannot see close? Clym must do ashe will--he is nothing more to me. And this is maternity--to giveone's best years and best love to ensure the fate of being despised!"
"You are too unyielding. Think how many mothers there are whose sonshave brought them to public shame by real crimes before you feel sodeeply a case like this."
"Thomasin, don't lecture me--I can't have it. It is the excess abovewhat we expect that makes the force of the blow, and that may notbe greater in their case than in mine: they may have foreseen theworst... I am wrongly made, Thomasin," she added, with a mournfulsmile. "Some widows can guard against the wounds their children givethem by turning their hearts to another husband and beginning lifeagain. But I always was a poor, weak, one-idea'd creature--I had notthe compass of heart nor the enterprise for that. Just as forlorn andstupefied as I was when my husband's spirit flew away I have sat eversince--never attempting to mend matters at all. I was comparatively ayoung woman then, and I might have had another family by this time,and have been comforted by them for the failure of this one son."
"It is more noble in you that you did not."
"The more noble, the less wise."
"Forget it, and be soothed, dear aunt. And I shall not leave youalone for long. I shall come and see you every day."
And for one week Thomasin literally fulfilled her word. Sheendeavoured to make light of the wedding; and brought news of thepreparations, and that she was invited to be present. The next weekshe was rather unwell, and did not appear. Nothing had as yet beendone about the guineas, for Thomasin feared to address her husbandagain on the subject, and Mrs. Yeobright had insisted upon this.
