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Chapter: <CHAPTER>
10--A Desperate Attempt at Persuasion

The next morning, at the time when the height of the sun appeared very
insignificant from any part of the heath as compared with the altitude
of Rainbarrow, and when all the little hills in the lower levels were
like an archipelago in a fog-formed Aegean, the reddleman came from
the brambled nook which he had adopted as his quarters and ascended the
slopes of Mistover Knap.

Though these shaggy hills were apparently so solitary, several keen
round eyes were always ready on such a wintry morning as this to
converge upon a passer-by. Feathered species sojourned here in hiding
which would have created wonder if found elsewhere. A bustard haunted
the spot, and not many years before this five and twenty might have been
seen in Egdon at one time. Marsh-harriers looked up from the valley by
Wildeve's. A cream-coloured courser had used to visit this hill, a bird
so rare that not more than a dozen have ever been seen in England; but
a barbarian rested neither night nor day till he had shot the African
truant, and after that event cream-coloured coursers thought fit to
enter Egdon no more.

A traveller who should walk and observe any of these visitants as Venn
observed them now could feel himself to be in direct communication with
regions unknown to man. Here in front of him was a wild mallard--just
arrived from the home of the north wind. The creature brought within
him an amplitude of Northern knowledge. Glacial catastrophes, snowstorm
episodes, glittering auroral effects, Polaris in the zenith, Franklin
underfoot--the category of his commonplaces was wonderful. But the bird,
like many other philosophers, seemed as he looked at the reddleman to
think that a present moment of comfortable reality was worth a decade of
memories.

Venn passed on through these towards the house of the isolated beauty
who lived up among them and despised them. The day was Sunday; but as
going to church, except to be married or buried, was exceptional at
Egdon, this made little difference. He had determined upon the bold
stroke of asking for an interview with Miss Vye--to attack her position
as Thomasin's rival either by art or by storm, showing therein, somewhat
too conspicuously, the want of gallantry characteristic of a certain
astute sort of men, from clowns to kings. The great Frederick making war
on the beautiful Archduchess, Napoleon refusing terms to the beautiful
Queen of Prussia, were not more dead to difference of sex than the
reddleman was, in his peculiar way, in planning the displacement of
Eustacia.

To call at the captain's cottage was always more or less an undertaking
for the inferior inhabitants. Though occasionally chatty, his moods
were erratic, and nobody could be certain how he would behave at
any particular moment. Eustacia was reserved, and lived very much
to herself. Except the daughter of one of the cotters, who was their
servant, and a lad who worked in the garden and stable, scarcely anyone
but themselves ever entered the house. They were the only genteel people
of the district except the Yeobrights, and though far from rich, they
did not feel that necessity for preserving a friendly face towards every
man, bird, and beast which influenced their poorer neighbours.

When the reddleman entered the garden the old man was looking through
his glass at the stain of blue sea in the distant landscape, the little
anchors on his buttons twinkling in the sun. He recognized Venn as
his companion on the highway, but made no remark on that circumstance,
merely saying, "Ah, reddleman--you here? Have a glass of grog?"

Venn declined, on the plea of it being too early, and stated that
his business was with Miss Vye. The captain surveyed him from cap to
waistcoat and from waistcoat to leggings for a few moments, and finally
asked him to go indoors.

Miss Vye was not to be seen by anybody just then; and the reddleman
waited in the window-bench of the kitchen, his hands hanging across his
divergent knees, and his cap hanging from his hands.

"I suppose the young lady is not up yet?" he presently said to the
servant.

"Not quite yet. Folks never call upon ladies at this time of day."

"Then I'll step outside," said Venn. "If she is willing to see me, will
she please send out word, and I'll come in."

The reddleman left the house and loitered on the hill adjoining. A
considerable time elapsed, and no request for his presence was brought.
He was beginning to think that his scheme had failed, when he beheld
the form of Eustacia herself coming leisurely towards him. A sense of
novelty in giving audience to that singular figure had been sufficient
to draw her forth.

She seemed to feel, after a bare look at Diggory Venn, that the man had
come on a strange errand, and that he was not so mean as she had thought
him; for her close approach did not cause him to writhe uneasily,
or shift his feet, or show any of those little signs which escape an
ingenuous rustic at the advent of the uncommon in womankind. On his
inquiring if he might have a conversation with her she replied, "Yes,
walk beside me," and continued to move on.

Before they had gone far it occurred to the perspicacious reddleman that
he would have acted more wisely by appearing less unimpressionable, and
he resolved to correct the error as soon as he could find opportunity.

"I have made so bold, miss, as to step across and tell you some strange
news which has come to my ears about that man."

"Ah! what man?"

He jerked his elbow to the southeast--the direction of the Quiet Woman.

Eustacia turned quickly to him. "Do you mean Mr. Wildeve?"

"Yes, there is trouble in a household on account of him, and I have come
to let you know of it, because I believe you might have power to drive
it away."

"I? What is the trouble?"

"It is quite a secret. It is that he may refuse to marry Thomasin
Yeobright after all."

Eustacia, though set inwardly pulsing by his words, was equal to her
part in such a drama as this. She replied coldly, "I do not wish to
listen to this, and you must not expect me to interfere."

"But, miss, you will hear one word?"

"I cannot. I am not interested in the marriage, and even if I were I
could not compel Mr. Wildeve to do my bidding."

"As the only lady on the heath I think you might," said Venn with subtle
indirectness. "This is how the case stands. Mr. Wildeve would marry
Thomasin at once, and make all matters smooth, if so be there were not
another woman in the case. This other woman is some person he has picked
up with, and meets on the heath occasionally, I believe. He will never
marry her, and yet through her he may never marry the woman who loves
him dearly. Now, if you, miss, who have so much sway over us menfolk,
were to insist that he should treat your young neighbour Tamsin with
honourable kindness and give up the other woman, he would perhaps do it,
and save her a good deal of misery."

"Ah, my life!" said Eustacia, with a laugh which unclosed her lips so
that the sun shone into her mouth as into a tulip, and lent it a similar
scarlet fire. "You think too much of my influence over menfolk indeed,
reddleman. If I had such a power as you imagine I would go straight and
use it for the good of anybody who has been kind to me--which Thomasin
Yeobright has not particularly, to my knowledge."

"Can it be that you really don't know of it--how much she had always
thought of you?"

"I have never heard a word of it. Although we live only two miles apart
I have never been inside her aunt's house in my life."

The superciliousness that lurked in her manner told Venn that thus
far he had utterly failed. He inwardly sighed and felt it necessary to
unmask his second argument.

"Well, leaving that out of the question, 'tis in your power, I assure
you, Miss Vye, to do a great deal of good to another woman."

She shook her head.

"Your comeliness is law with Mr. Wildeve. It is law with all men who see
'ee. They say, 'This well-favoured lady coming--what's her name? How
handsome!' Handsomer than Thomasin Yeobright," the reddleman persisted,
saying to himself, "God forgive a rascal for lying!" And she was
handsomer, but the reddleman was far from thinking so. There was a
certain obscurity in Eustacia's beauty, and Venn's eye was not trained.
In her winter dress, as now, she was like the tiger-beetle, which, when
observed in dull situations, seems to be of the quietest neutral colour,
but under a full illumination blazes with dazzling splendour.

Eustacia could not help replying, though conscious that she endangered
her dignity thereby. "Many women are lovelier than Thomasin," she said,
"so not much attaches to that."

The reddleman suffered the wound and went on: "He is a man who notices
the looks of women, and you could twist him to your will like withywind,
if you only had the mind."

"Surely what she cannot do who has been so much with him I cannot do
living up here away from him."

The reddleman wheeled and looked her in the face. "Miss Vye!" he said.

"Why do you say that--as if you doubted me?" She spoke faintly, and her
breathing was quick. "The idea of your speaking in that tone to me!"
she added, with a forced smile of hauteur. "What could have been in your
mind to lead you to speak like that?"

"Miss Vye, why should you make believe that you don't know this man?--I
know why, certainly. He is beneath you, and you are ashamed."

"You are mistaken. What do you mean?"

The reddleman had decided to play the card of truth. "I was at the
meeting by Rainbarrow last night and heard every word," he said. "The
woman that stands between Wildeve and Thomasin is yourself."

It was a disconcerting lift of the curtain, and the mortification of
Candaules' wife glowed in her. The moment had arrived when her lip would
tremble in spite of herself, and when the gasp could no longer be kept
down.

"I am unwell," she said hurriedly. "No--it is not that--I am not in a
humour to hear you further. Leave me, please."

"I must speak, Miss Vye, in spite of paining you. What I would put
before you is this. However it may come about--whether she is to blame,
or you--her case is without doubt worse than yours. Your giving up Mr.
Wildeve will be a real advantage to you, for how could you marry him?
Now she cannot get off so easily--everybody will blame her if she loses
him. Then I ask you--not because her right is best, but because her
situation is worst--to give him up to her."

"No--I won't, I won't!" she said impetuously, quite forgetful of her
previous manner towards the reddleman as an underling. "Nobody has ever
been served so! It was going on well--I will not be beaten down--by an
inferior woman like her. It is very well for you to come and plead for
her, but is she not herself the cause of all her own trouble? Am I not
to show favour to any person I may choose without asking permission of a
parcel of cottagers? She has come between me and my inclination, and now
that she finds herself rightly punished she gets you to plead for her!"

"Indeed," said Venn earnestly, "she knows nothing whatever about it. It
is only I who ask you to give him up. It will be better for her and you
both. People will say bad things if they find out that a lady secretly
meets a man who has ill-used another woman."

"I have NOT injured her--he was mine before he was hers! He came
back--because--because he liked me best!" she said wildly. "But I lose
all self-respect in talking to you. What am I giving way to!"

"I can keep secrets," said Venn gently. "You need not fear. I am the
only man who knows of your meetings with him. There is but one thing
more to speak of, and then I will be gone. I heard you say to him that
you hated living here--that Egdon Heath was a jail to you."

"I did say so. There is a sort of beauty in the scenery, I know; but it
is a jail to me. The man you mention does not save me from that feeling,
though he lives here. I should have cared nothing for him had there been
a better person near."

The reddleman looked hopeful; after these words from her his third
attempt seemed promising. "As we have now opened our minds a bit, miss,"
he said, "I'll tell you what I have got to propose. Since I have taken
to the reddle trade I travel a good deal, as you know."

She inclined her head, and swept round so that her eyes rested in the
misty vale beneath them.

"And in my travels I go near Budmouth. Now Budmouth is a wonderful
place--wonderful--a great salt sheening sea bending into the land like
a bow--thousands of gentlepeople walking up and down--bands of music
playing--officers by sea and officers by land walking among the
rest--out of every ten folks you meet nine of 'em in love."

"I know it," she said disdainfully. "I know Budmouth better than you.
I was born there. My father came to be a military musician there from
abroad. Ah, my soul, Budmouth! I wish I was there now."

The reddleman was surprised to see how a slow fire could blaze on
occasion. "If you were, miss," he replied, "in a week's time you would
think no more of Wildeve than of one of those he'th-croppers that we see
yond. Now, I could get you there."

"How?" said Eustacia, with intense curiosity in her heavy eyes.

"My uncle has been for five and twenty years the trusty man of a rich
widow-lady who has a beautiful house facing the sea. This lady has
become old and lame, and she wants a young company-keeper to read and
sing to her, but can't get one to her mind to save her life, though
she've advertised in the papers, and tried half a dozen. She would jump
to get you, and Uncle would make it all easy."

"I should have to work, perhaps?"

"No, not real work--you'd have a little to do, such as reading and that.
You would not be wanted till New Year's Day."

"I knew it meant work," she said, drooping to languor again.

"I confess there would be a trifle to do in the way of amusing her;
but though idle people might call it work, working people would call
it play. Think of the company and the life you'd lead, miss; the gaiety
you'd see, and the gentleman you'd marry. My uncle is to inquire for a
trustworthy young lady from the country, as she don't like town girls."

"It is to wear myself out to please her! and I won't go. O, if I could
live in a gay town as a lady should, and go my own ways, and do my own
doings, I'd give the wrinkled half of my life! Yes, reddleman, that
would I."

"Help me to get Thomasin happy, miss, and the chance shall be yours,"
urged her companion.

"Chance--'tis no chance," she said proudly. "What can a poor man like
you offer me, indeed?--I am going indoors. I have nothing more to say.
Don't your horses want feeding, or your reddlebags want mending, or
don't you want to find buyers for your goods, that you stay idling here
like this?"

Venn spoke not another word. With his hands behind him he turned away,
that she might not see the hopeless disappointment in his face. The
mental clearness and power he had found in this lonely girl had indeed
filled his manner with misgiving even from the first few minutes of
close quarters with her. Her youth and situation had led him to expect
a simplicity quite at the beck of his method. But a system of inducement
which might have carried weaker country lasses along with it had merely
repelled Eustacia. As a rule, the word Budmouth meant fascination on
Egdon. That Royal port and watering place, if truly mirrored in
the minds of the heathfolk, must have combined, in a charming and
indescribable manner a Carthaginian bustle of building with Tarentine
luxuriousness and Baian health and beauty. Eustacia felt little less
extravagantly about the place; but she would not sink her independence
to get there.

When Diggory Venn had gone quite away, Eustacia walked to the bank and
looked down the wild and picturesque vale towards the sun, which was
also in the direction of Wildeve's. The mist had now so far collapsed
that the tips of the trees and bushes around his house could just
be discerned, as if boring upwards through a vast white cobweb which
cloaked them from the day. There was no doubt that her mind was inclined
thitherward; indefinitely, fancifully--twining and untwining about
him as the single object within her horizon on which dreams might
crystallize. The man who had begun by being merely her amusement, and
would never have been more than her hobby but for his skill in deserting
her at the right moments, was now again her desire. Cessation in his
love-making had revivified her love. Such feeling as Eustacia had idly
given to Wildeve was dammed into a flood by Thomasin. She had used to
tease Wildeve, but that was before another had favoured him. Often a
drop of irony into an indifferent situation renders the whole piquant.

"I will never give him up--never!" she said impetuously.

The reddleman's hint that rumour might show her to disadvantage had
no permanent terror for Eustacia. She was as unconcerned at that
contingency as a goddess at a lack of linen. This did not originate in
inherent shamelessness, but in her living too far from the world to feel
the impact of public opinion. Zenobia in the desert could hardly have
cared what was said about her at Rome. As far as social ethics were
concerned Eustacia approached the savage state, though in emotion she
was all the while an epicure. She had advanced to the secret recesses of
sensuousness, yet had hardly crossed the threshold of conventionality.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
11--The Dishonesty of an Honest Woman

The reddleman had left Eustacia's presence with desponding views on
Thomasin's future happiness; but he was awakened to the fact that one
other channel remained untried by seeing, as he followed the way to his
van, the form of Mrs. Yeobright slowly walking towards the Quiet Woman.
He went across to her; and could almost perceive in her anxious face
that this journey of hers to Wildeve was undertaken with the same object
as his own to Eustacia.

She did not conceal the fact. "Then," said the reddleman, "you may as
well leave it alone, Mrs. Yeobright."

"I half think so myself," she said. "But nothing else remains to be done
besides pressing the question upon him."

"I should like to say a word first," said Venn firmly. "Mr. Wildeve is
not the only man who has asked Thomasin to marry him; and why should not
another have a chance? Mrs. Yeobright, I should be glad to marry your
niece and would have done it any time these last two years. There, now
it is out, and I have never told anybody before but herself."

Mrs. Yeobright was not demonstrative, but her eyes involuntarily glanced
towards his singular though shapely figure.

"Looks are not everything," said the reddleman, noticing the glance.
"There's many a calling that don't bring in so much as mine, if it comes
to money; and perhaps I am not so much worse off than Wildeve. There is
nobody so poor as these professional fellows who have failed; and if you
shouldn't like my redness--well, I am not red by birth, you know; I only
took to this business for a freak; and I might turn my hand to something
else in good time."

"I am much obliged to you for your interest in my niece; but I fear
there would be objections. More than that, she is devoted to this man."

"True; or I shouldn't have done what I have this morning."

"Otherwise there would be no pain in the case, and you would not see me
going to his house now. What was Thomasin's answer when you told her of
your feelings?"

"She wrote that you would object to me; and other things."

"She was in a measure right. You must not take this unkindly--I merely
state it as a truth. You have been good to her, and we do not forget
it. But as she was unwilling on her own account to be your wife, that
settles the point without my wishes being concerned."

"Yes. But there is a difference between then and now, ma'am. She is
distressed now, and I have thought that if you were to talk to her about
me, and think favourably of me yourself, there might be a chance of
winning her round, and getting her quite independent of this Wildeve's
backward and forward play, and his not knowing whether he'll have her or
no."

Mrs. Yeobright shook her head. "Thomasin thinks, and I think with her,
that she ought to be Wildeve's wife, if she means to appear before the
world without a slur upon her name. If they marry soon, everybody will
believe that an accident did really prevent the wedding. If not, it may
cast a shade upon her character--at any rate make her ridiculous. In
short, if it is anyhow possible they must marry now."

"I thought that till half an hour ago. But, after all, why should her
going off with him to Anglebury for a few hours do her any harm? Anybody
who knows how pure she is will feel any such thought to be quite
unjust. I have been trying this morning to help on this marriage with
Wildeve--yes, I, ma'am--in the belief that I ought to do it, because she
was so wrapped up in him. But I much question if I was right, after all.
However, nothing came of it. And now I offer myself."

Mrs. Yeobright appeared disinclined to enter further into the question.
"I fear I must go on," she said. "I do not see that anything else can be
done."

And she went on. But though this conversation did not divert Thomasin's
aunt from her purposed interview with Wildeve, it made a considerable
difference in her mode of conducting that interview. She thanked God for
the weapon which the reddleman had put into her hands.

Wildeve was at home when she reached the inn. He showed her silently
into the parlour, and closed the door. Mrs. Yeobright began--

"I have thought it my duty to call today. A new proposal has been made
to me, which has rather astonished me. It will affect Thomasin greatly;
and I have decided that it should at least be mentioned to you."

"Yes? What is it?" he said civilly.

"It is, of course, in reference to her future. You may not be aware that
another man has shown himself anxious to marry Thomasin. Now, though
I have not encouraged him yet, I cannot conscientiously refuse him a
chance any longer. I don't wish to be short with you; but I must be fair
to him and to her."

"Who is the man?" said Wildeve with surprise.

"One who has been in love with her longer than she has with you. He
proposed to her two years ago. At that time she refused him."

"Well?"

"He has seen her lately, and has asked me for permission to pay his
addresses to her. She may not refuse him twice."

"What is his name?"

Mrs. Yeobright declined to say. "He is a man Thomasin likes," she added,
"and one whose constancy she respects at least. It seems to me that what
she refused then she would be glad to get now. She is much annoyed at
her awkward position."

"She never once told me of this old lover."

"The gentlest women are not such fools as to show EVERY card."

"Well, if she wants him I suppose she must have him."

"It is easy enough to say that; but you don't see the difficulty. He
wants her much more than she wants him; and before I can encourage
anything of the sort I must have a clear understanding from you that
you will not interfere to injure an arrangement which I promote in the
belief that it is for the best. Suppose, when they are engaged, and
everything is smoothly arranged for their marriage, that you should step
between them and renew your suit? You might not win her back, but you
might cause much unhappiness."

"Of course I should do no such thing," said Wildeve "But they are not
engaged yet. How do you know that Thomasin would accept him?"

"That's a question I have carefully put to myself; and upon the whole
the probabilities are in favour of her accepting him in time. I flatter
myself that I have some influence over her. She is pliable, and I can be
strong in my recommendations of him."

"And in your disparagement of me at the same time."

"Well, you may depend upon my not praising you," she said drily. "And
if this seems like manoeuvring, you must remember that her position is
peculiar, and that she has been hardly used. I shall also be helped in
making the match by her own desire to escape from the humiliation of her
present state; and a woman's pride in these cases will lead her a very
great way. A little managing may be required to bring her round; but
I am equal to that, provided that you agree to the one thing
indispensable; that is, to make a distinct declaration that she is to
think no more of you as a possible husband. That will pique her into
accepting him."

"I can hardly say that just now, Mrs. Yeobright. It is so sudden."

"And so my whole plan is interfered with! It is very inconvenient
that you refuse to help my family even to the small extent of saying
distinctly you will have nothing to do with us."

Wildeve reflected uncomfortably. "I confess I was not prepared for
this," he said. "Of course I'll give her up if you wish, if it is
necessary. But I thought I might be her husband."

"We have heard that before."

"Now, Mrs. Yeobright, don't let us disagree. Give me a fair time. I
don't want to stand in the way of any better chance she may have; only
I wish you had let me know earlier. I will write to you or call in a day
or two. Will that suffice?"

"Yes," she replied, "provided you promise not to communicate with
Thomasin without my knowledge."

"I promise that," he said. And the interview then terminated, Mrs.
Yeobright returning homeward as she had come.

By far the greatest effect of her simple strategy on that day was, as
often happens, in a quarter quite outside her view when arranging it. In
the first place, her visit sent Wildeve the same evening after dark to
Eustacia's house at Mistover.

At this hour the lonely dwelling was closely blinded and shuttered from
the chill and darkness without. Wildeve's clandestine plan with her was
to take a little gravel in his hand and hold it to the crevice at the
top of the window shutter, which was on the outside, so that it should
fall with a gentle rustle, resembling that of a mouse, between shutter
and glass. This precaution in attracting her attention was to avoid
arousing the suspicions of her grandfather.

The soft words, "I hear; wait for me," in Eustacia's voice from within
told him that she was alone.

He waited in his customary manner by walking round the enclosure and
idling by the pool, for Wildeve was never asked into the house by his
proud though condescending mistress. She showed no sign of coming out in
a hurry. The time wore on, and he began to grow impatient. In the course
of twenty minutes she appeared from round the corner, and advanced as if
merely taking an airing.

"You would not have kept me so long had you known what I come about," he
said with bitterness. "Still, you are worth waiting for."

"What has happened?" said Eustacia. "I did not know you were in trouble.
I too am gloomy enough."

"I am not in trouble," said he. "It is merely that affairs have come to
a head, and I must take a clear course."

"What course is that?" she asked with attentive interest.

"And can you forget so soon what I proposed to you the other night? Why,
take you from this place, and carry you away with me abroad."

"I have not forgotten. But why have you come so unexpectedly to repeat
the question, when you only promised to come next Saturday? I thought I
was to have plenty of time to consider."

"Yes, but the situation is different now."

"Explain to me."

"I don't want to explain, for I may pain you."

"But I must know the reason of this hurry."

"It is simply my ardour, dear Eustacia. Everything is smooth now."

"Then why are you so ruffled?"

"I am not aware of it. All is as it should be. Mrs. Yeobright--but she
is nothing to us."

"Ah, I knew she had something to do with it! Come, I don't like
reserve."

"No--she has nothing. She only says she wishes me to give up Thomasin
because another man is anxious to marry her. The woman, now she no
longer needs me, actually shows off!" Wildeve's vexation has escaped him
in spite of himself.

Eustacia was silent a long while. "You are in the awkward position of an
official who is no longer wanted," she said in a changed tone.

"It seems so. But I have not yet seen Thomasin."

"And that irritates you. Don't deny it, Damon. You are actually nettled
by this slight from an unexpected quarter."

"Well?"

"And you come to get me because you cannot get her. This is certainly a
new position altogether. I am to be a stop-gap."

"Please remember that I proposed the same thing the other day."

Eustacia again remained in a sort of stupefied silence. What curious
feeling was this coming over her? Was it really possible that her
interest in Wildeve had been so entirely the result of antagonism that
the glory and the dream departed from the man with the first sound that
he was no longer coveted by her rival? She was, then, secure of him at
last. Thomasin no longer required him. What a humiliating victory!
He loved her best, she thought; and yet--dared she to murmur such
treacherous criticism ever so softly?--what was the man worth whom a
woman inferior to herself did not value? The sentiment which lurks more
or less in all animate nature--that of not desiring the undesired of
others--was lively as a passion in the supersubtle, epicurean heart of
Eustacia. Her social superiority over him, which hitherto had scarcely
ever impressed her, became unpleasantly insistent, and for the first
time she felt that she had stooped in loving him.

"Well, darling, you agree?" said Wildeve.

"If it could be London, or even Budmouth, instead of America," she
murmured languidly. "Well, I will think. It is too great a thing for me
to decide offhand. I wish I hated the heath less--or loved you more."

"You can be painfully frank. You loved me a month ago warmly enough to
go anywhere with me."

"And you loved Thomasin."

"Yes, perhaps that was where the reason lay," he returned, with almost a
sneer. "I don't hate her now."

"Exactly. The only thing is that you can no longer get her."

"Come--no taunts, Eustacia, or we shall quarrel. If you don't agree to
go with me, and agree shortly, I shall go by myself."

"Or try Thomasin again. Damon, how strange it seems that you could have
married her or me indifferently, and only have come to me because I
am--cheapest! Yes, yes--it is true. There was a time when I should have
exclaimed against a man of that sort, and been quite wild; but it is all
past now."

"Will you go, dearest? Come secretly with me to Bristol, marry me, and
turn our backs upon this dog-hole of England for ever? Say Yes."

"I want to get away from here at almost any cost," she said with
weariness, "but I don't like to go with you. Give me more time to
decide."

"I have already," said Wildeve. "Well, I give you one more week."

"A little longer, so that I may tell you decisively. I have to consider
so many things. Fancy Thomasin being anxious to get rid of you! I cannot
forget it."

"Never mind that. Say Monday week. I will be here precisely at this
time."

"Let it be at Rainbarrow," said she. "This is too near home; my
grandfather may be walking out."

"Thank you, dear. On Monday week at this time I will be at the Barrow.
Till then good-bye."

"Good-bye. No, no, you must not touch me now. Shaking hands is enough
till I have made up my mind."

Eustacia watched his shadowy form till it had disappeared. She placed
her hand to her forehead and breathed heavily; and then her rich,
romantic lips parted under that homely impulse--a yawn. She was
immediately angry at having betrayed even to herself the possible
evanescence of her passion for him. She could not admit at once that she
might have overestimated Wildeve, for to perceive his mediocrity now was
to admit her own great folly heretofore. And the discovery that she was
the owner of a disposition so purely that of the dog in the manger had
something in it which at first made her ashamed.

The fruit of Mrs. Yeobright's diplomacy was indeed remarkable,
though not as yet of the kind she had anticipated. It had appreciably
influenced Wildeve, but it was influencing Eustacia far more. Her lover
was no longer to her an exciting man whom many women strove for, and
herself could only retain by striving with them. He was a superfluity.

She went indoors in that peculiar state of misery which is not exactly
grief, and which especially attends the dawnings of reason in the latter
days of an ill-judged, transient love. To be conscious that the end of
the dream is approaching, and yet has not absolutely come, is one of
the most wearisome as well as the most curious stages along the course
between the beginning of a passion and its end.

Her grandfather had returned, and was busily engaged in pouring some
gallons of newly arrived rum into the square bottles of his square
cellaret. Whenever these home supplies were exhausted he would go to the
Quiet Woman, and, standing with his back to the fire, grog in hand, tell
remarkable stories of how he had lived seven years under the waterline
of his ship, and other naval wonders, to the natives, who hoped too
earnestly for a treat of ale from the teller to exhibit any doubts of
his truth.

He had been there this evening. "I suppose you have heard the Egdon
news, Eustacia?" he said, without looking up from the bottles. "The
men have been talking about it at the Woman as if it were of national
importance."

"I have heard none," she said.

"Young Clym Yeobright, as they call him, is coming home next week to
spend Christmas with his mother. He is a fine fellow by this time, it
seems. I suppose you remember him?"

"I never saw him in my life."

"Ah, true; he left before you came here. I well remember him as a
promising boy."

"Where has he been living all these years?"

"In that rookery of pomp and vanity, Paris, I believe."

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Venn calls on Eustacia, but she cannot be persuaded to give up Wildeve, despite his telling her that he has seen and overheard them at Rainbarrow. Venn goes to Mrs. Yeobright and asks for her niece's hand in marriage, informing her that though he himself has proposed to Thomasin and been rejected, things are different now. Mrs. Yeobright rejects his offer. Mrs. Yeobright meets Wildeve and lets him know that he is not her niece's only suitor. Wildeve is still unwilling to commit himself and rushes to meet Eustacia to ask her if she will commit herself to him, but she refuses to do so. Back at home, Captain Vye mentions that Clym Yeobright is returning home from Paris at Christmas.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
BOOK TWO -- THE ARRIVAL
1--Tidings of the Comer

On the fine days at this time of the year, and earlier, certain
ephemeral operations were apt to disturb, in their trifling way, the
majestic calm of Egdon Heath. They were activities which, beside those
of a town, a village, or even a farm, would have appeared as the ferment
of stagnation merely, a creeping of the flesh of somnolence. But here,
away from comparisons, shut in by the stable hills, among which mere
walking had the novelty of pageantry, and where any man could imagine
himself to be Adam without the least difficulty, they attracted the
attention of every bird within eyeshot, every reptile not yet asleep,
and set the surrounding rabbits curiously watching from hillocks at a
safe distance.

The performance was that of bringing together and building into a stack
the furze faggots which Humphrey had been cutting for the captain's
use during the foregoing fine days. The stack was at the end of the
dwelling, and the men engaged in building it were Humphrey and Sam, the
old man looking on.

It was a fine and quiet afternoon, about three o'clock; but the winter
solstice having stealthily come on, the lowness of the sun caused the
hour to seem later than it actually was, there being little here to
remind an inhabitant that he must unlearn his summer experience of the
sky as a dial. In the course of many days and weeks sunrise had advanced
its quarters from northeast to southeast, sunset had receded from
northwest to southwest; but Egdon had hardly heeded the change.

Eustacia was indoors in the dining-room, which was really more like a
kitchen, having a stone floor and a gaping chimney-corner. The air was
still, and while she lingered a moment here alone sounds of voices in
conversation came to her ears directly down the chimney. She entered
the recess, and, listening, looked up the old irregular shaft, with its
cavernous hollows, where the smoke blundered about on its way to the
square bit of sky at the top, from which the daylight struck down with a
pallid glare upon the tatters of soot draping the flue as seaweed drapes
a rocky fissure.

She remembered: the furze-stack was not far from the chimney, and the
voices were those of the workers.

Her grandfather joined in the conversation. "That lad ought never to
have left home. His father's occupation would have suited him best, and
the boy should have followed on. I don't believe in these new moves in
families. My father was a sailor, so was I, and so should my son have
been if I had had one."

"The place he's been living at is Paris," said Humphrey, "and they tell
me 'tis where the king's head was cut off years ago. My poor mother used
to tell me about that business. 'Hummy,' she used to say, 'I was a young
maid then, and as I was at home ironing Mother's caps one afternoon the
parson came in and said, "They've cut the king's head off, Jane; and
what 'twill be next God knows."'"

"A good many of us knew as well as He before long," said the captain,
chuckling. "I lived seven years under water on account of it in my
boyhood--in that damned surgery of the Triumph, seeing men brought down
to the cockpit with their legs and arms blown to Jericho.... And so the
young man has settled in Paris. Manager to a diamond merchant, or some
such thing, is he not?"

"Yes, sir, that's it. 'Tis a blazing great business that he belongs to,
so I've heard his mother say--like a king's palace, as far as diments
go."

"I can well mind when he left home," said Sam.

"'Tis a good thing for the feller," said Humphrey. "A sight of times
better to be selling diments than nobbling about here."

"It must cost a good few shillings to deal at such a place."

"A good few indeed, my man," replied the captain. "Yes, you may make
away with a deal of money and be neither drunkard nor glutton."

"They say, too, that Clym Yeobright is become a real perusing man, with
the strangest notions about things. There, that's because he went to
school early, such as the school was."

"Strange notions, has he?" said the old man. "Ah, there's too much of
that sending to school in these days! It only does harm. Every gatepost
and barn's door you come to is sure to have some bad word or other
chalked upon it by the young rascals--a woman can hardly pass for shame
sometimes. If they'd never been taught how to write they wouldn't have
been able to scribble such villainy. Their fathers couldn't do it, and
the country was all the better for it."

"Now, I should think, Cap'n, that Miss Eustacia had about as much in her
head that comes from books as anybody about here?"

"Perhaps if Miss Eustacia, too, had less romantic nonsense in her head
it would be better for her," said the captain shortly; after which he
walked away.

"I say, Sam," observed Humphrey when the old man was gone, "she and Clym
Yeobright would make a very pretty pigeon-pair--hey? If they wouldn't
I'll be dazed! Both of one mind about niceties for certain, and learned
in print, and always thinking about high doctrine--there couldn't be a
better couple if they were made o' purpose. Clym's family is as good as
hers. His father was a farmer, that's true; but his mother was a sort
of lady, as we know. Nothing would please me better than to see them two
man and wife."

"They'd look very natty, arm-in-crook together, and their best clothes
on, whether or no, if he's at all the well-favoured fellow he used to
be."

"They would, Humphrey. Well, I should like to see the chap terrible much
after so many years. If I knew for certain when he was coming I'd stroll
out three or four miles to meet him and help carry anything for'n;
though I suppose he's altered from the boy he was. They say he can talk
French as fast as a maid can eat blackberries; and if so, depend upon it
we who have stayed at home shall seem no more than scroff in his eyes."

"Coming across the water to Budmouth by steamer, isn't he?"

"Yes; but how he's coming from Budmouth I don't know."

"That's a bad trouble about his cousin Thomasin. I wonder such a
nice-notioned fellow as Clym likes to come home into it. What a
nunnywatch we were in, to be sure, when we heard they weren't married
at all, after singing to 'em as man and wife that night! Be dazed if
I should like a relation of mine to have been made such a fool of by a
man. It makes the family look small."

"Yes. Poor maid, her heart has ached enough about it. Her health is
suffering from it, I hear, for she will bide entirely indoors. We never
see her out now, scampering over the furze with a face as red as a rose,
as she used to do."

"I've heard she wouldn't have Wildeve now if he asked her."

"You have? 'Tis news to me."

While the furze-gatherers had desultorily conversed thus Eustacia's
face gradually bent to the hearth in a profound reverie, her toe
unconsciously tapping the dry turf which lay burning at her feet.

The subject of their discourse had been keenly interesting to her. A
young and clever man was coming into that lonely heath from, of all
contrasting places in the world, Paris. It was like a man coming from
heaven. More singular still, the heathmen had instinctively coupled her
and this man together in their minds as a pair born for each other.

That five minutes of overhearing furnished Eustacia with visions enough
to fill the whole blank afternoon. Such sudden alternations from mental
vacuity do sometimes occur thus quietly. She could never have believed
in the morning that her colourless inner world would before night become
as animated as water under a microscope, and that without the arrival of
a single visitor. The words of Sam and Humphrey on the harmony between
the unknown and herself had on her mind the effect of the invading
Bard's prelude in the Castle of Indolence, at which myriads of
imprisoned shapes arose where had previously appeared the stillness of a
void.

Involved in these imaginings she knew nothing of time. When she became
conscious of externals it was dusk. The furze-rick was finished; the men
had gone home. Eustacia went upstairs, thinking that she would take a
walk at this her usual time; and she determined that her walk should be
in the direction of Blooms-End, the birthplace of young Yeobright and
the present home of his mother. She had no reason for walking elsewhere,
and why should she not go that way? The scene of the daydream is
sufficient for a pilgrimage at nineteen. To look at the palings before
the Yeobrights' house had the dignity of a necessary performance.
Strange that such a piece of idling should have seemed an important
errand.

She put on her bonnet, and, leaving the house, descended the hill on the
side towards Blooms-End, where she walked slowly along the valley for a
distance of a mile and a half. This brought her to a spot in which the
green bottom of the dale began to widen, the furze bushes to recede
yet further from the path on each side, till they were diminished to
an isolated one here and there by the increasing fertility of the soil.
Beyond the irregular carpet of grass was a row of white palings, which
marked the verge of the heath in this latitude. They showed upon the
dusky scene that they bordered as distinctly as white lace on velvet.
Behind the white palings was a little garden; behind the garden an old,
irregular, thatched house, facing the heath, and commanding a full view
of the valley. This was the obscure, removed spot to which was about
to return a man whose latter life had been passed in the French
capital--the centre and vortex of the fashionable world.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
2--The People at Blooms-End Make Ready

All that afternoon the expected arrival of the subject of Eustacia's
ruminations created a bustle of preparation at Blooms-End. Thomasin had
been persuaded by her aunt, and by an instinctive impulse of loyalty
towards her cousin Clym, to bestir herself on his account with an
alacrity unusual in her during these most sorrowful days of her life. At
the time that Eustacia was listening to the rick-makers' conversation
on Clym's return, Thomasin was climbing into a loft over her aunt's
fuelhouse, where the store-apples were kept, to search out the best and
largest of them for the coming holiday-time.

The loft was lighted by a semicircular hole, through which the pigeons
crept to their lodgings in the same high quarters of the premises; and
from this hole the sun shone in a bright yellow patch upon the figure of
the maiden as she knelt and plunged her naked arms into the soft brown
fern, which, from its abundance, was used on Egdon in packing away
stores of all kinds. The pigeons were flying about her head with the
greatest unconcern, and the face of her aunt was just visible above
the floor of the loft, lit by a few stray motes of light, as she stood
halfway up the ladder, looking at a spot into which she was not climber
enough to venture.

"Now a few russets, Tamsin. He used to like them almost as well as
ribstones."

Thomasin turned and rolled aside the fern from another nook, where more
mellow fruit greeted her with its ripe smell. Before picking them out
she stopped a moment.

"Dear Clym, I wonder how your face looks now?" she said, gazing
abstractedly at the pigeon-hole, which admitted the sunlight so directly
upon her brown hair and transparent tissues that it almost seemed to
shine through her.

"If he could have been dear to you in another way," said Mrs. Yeobright
from the ladder, "this might have been a happy meeting."

"Is there any use in saying what can do no good, Aunt?"

"Yes," said her aunt, with some warmth. "To thoroughly fill the air with
the past misfortune, so that other girls may take warning and keep clear
of it."

Thomasin lowered her face to the apples again. "I am a warning to
others, just as thieves and drunkards and gamblers are," she said in a
low voice. "What a class to belong to! Do I really belong to them? 'Tis
absurd! Yet why, Aunt, does everybody keep on making me think that I do,
by the way they behave towards me? Why don't people judge me by my acts?
Now, look at me as I kneel here, picking up these apples--do I look
like a lost woman?... I wish all good women were as good as I!" she added
vehemently.

"Strangers don't see you as I do," said Mrs. Yeobright; "they judge from
false report. Well, it is a silly job, and I am partly to blame."

"How quickly a rash thing can be done!" replied the girl. Her lips were
quivering, and tears so crowded themselves into her eyes that she could
hardly distinguish apples from fern as she continued industriously
searching to hide her weakness.

"As soon as you have finished getting the apples," her aunt said,
descending the ladder, "come down, and we'll go for the holly. There is
nobody on the heath this afternoon, and you need not fear being
stared at. We must get some berries, or Clym will never believe in our
preparations."

Thomasin came down when the apples were collected, and together they
went through the white palings to the heath beyond. The open hills were
airy and clear, and the remote atmosphere appeared, as it often appears
on a fine winter day, in distinct planes of illumination independently
toned, the rays which lit the nearer tracts of landscape streaming
visibly across those further off; a stratum of ensaffroned light was
imposed on a stratum of deep blue, and behind these lay still remoter
scenes wrapped in frigid grey.

They reached the place where the hollies grew, which was in a conical
pit, so that the tops of the trees were not much above the general level
of the ground. Thomasin stepped up into a fork of one of the bushes, as
she had done under happier circumstances on many similar occasions,
and with a small chopper that they had brought she began to lop off the
heavily berried boughs.

"Don't scratch your face," said her aunt, who stood at the edge of the
pit, regarding the girl as she held on amid the glistening green and
scarlet masses of the tree. "Will you walk with me to meet him this
evening?"

"I should like to. Else it would seem as if I had forgotten him," said
Thomasin, tossing out a bough. "Not that that would matter much; I
belong to one man; nothing can alter that. And that man I must marry,
for my pride's sake."

"I am afraid--" began Mrs. Yeobright.

"Ah, you think, 'That weak girl--how is she going to get a man to marry
her when she chooses?' But let me tell you one thing, Aunt: Mr. Wildeve
is not a profligate man, any more than I am an improper woman. He has
an unfortunate manner, and doesn't try to make people like him if they
don't wish to do it of their own accord."

"Thomasin," said Mrs. Yeobright quietly, fixing her eye upon her niece,
"do you think you deceive me in your defence of Mr. Wildeve?"

"How do you mean?"

"I have long had a suspicion that your love for him has changed its
colour since you have found him not to be the saint you thought him, and
that you act a part to me."

"He wished to marry me, and I wish to marry him."

"Now, I put it to you: would you at this present moment agree to be his
wife if that had not happened to entangle you with him?"

Thomasin looked into the tree and appeared much disturbed. "Aunt,"
she said presently, "I have, I think, a right to refuse to answer that
question."

"Yes, you have."

"You may think what you choose. I have never implied to you by word or
deed that I have grown to think otherwise of him, and I never will. And
I shall marry him."

"Well, wait till he repeats his offer. I think he may do it, now that he
knows--something I told him. I don't for a moment dispute that it is the
most proper thing for you to marry him. Much as I have objected to him
in bygone days, I agree with you now, you may be sure. It is the only
way out of a false position, and a very galling one."

"What did you tell him?"

"That he was standing in the way of another lover of yours."

"Aunt," said Thomasin, with round eyes, "what DO you mean?"

"Don't be alarmed; it was my duty. I can say no more about it now, but
when it is over I will tell you exactly what I said, and why I said it."

Thomasin was perforce content.

"And you will keep the secret of my would-be marriage from Clym for the
present?" she next asked.

"I have given my word to. But what is the use of it? He must soon know
what has happened. A mere look at your face will show him that something
is wrong."

Thomasin turned and regarded her aunt from the tree. "Now, hearken to
me," she said, her delicate voice expanding into firmness by a force
which was other than physical. "Tell him nothing. If he finds out that I
am not worthy to be his cousin, let him. But, since he loved me once, we
will not pain him by telling him my trouble too soon. The air is full of
the story, I know; but gossips will not dare to speak of it to him for
the first few days. His closeness to me is the very thing that will
hinder the tale from reaching him early. If I am not made safe from
sneers in a week or two I will tell him myself."

The earnestness with which Thomasin spoke prevented further objections.
Her aunt simply said, "Very well. He should by rights have been told at
the time that the wedding was going to be. He will never forgive you for
your secrecy."

"Yes, he will, when he knows it was because I wished to spare him, and
that I did not expect him home so soon. And you must not let me stand in
the way of your Christmas party. Putting it off would only make matters
worse."

"Of course I shall not. I do not wish to show myself beaten before all
Egdon, and the sport of a man like Wildeve. We have enough berries now,
I think, and we had better take them home. By the time we have decked
the house with this and hung up the mistletoe, we must think of starting
to meet him."

Thomasin came out of the tree, shook from her hair and dress the loose
berries which had fallen thereon, and went down the hill with her aunt,
each woman bearing half the gathered boughs. It was now nearly four
o'clock, and the sunlight was leaving the vales. When the west grew red
the two relatives came again from the house and plunged into the heath
in a different direction from the first, towards a point in the distant
highway along which the expected man was to return.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
3--How a Little Sound Produced a Great Dream

Eustacia stood just within the heath, straining her eyes in the
direction of Mrs. Yeobright's house and premises. No light, sound, or
movement was perceptible there. The evening was chilly; the spot was
dark and lonely. She inferred that the guest had not yet come; and after
lingering ten or fifteen minutes she turned again towards home.

She had not far retraced her steps when sounds in front of her betokened
the approach of persons in conversation along the same path. Soon their
heads became visible against the sky. They were walking slowly; and
though it was too dark for much discovery of character from aspect, the
gait of them showed that they were not workers on the heath. Eustacia
stepped a little out of the foot-track to let them pass. They were
two women and a man; and the voices of the women were those of Mrs.
Yeobright and Thomasin.

They went by her, and at the moment of passing appeared to discern her
dusky form. There came to her ears in a masculine voice, "Good night!"

She murmured a reply, glided by them, and turned round. She could not,
for a moment, believe that chance, unrequested, had brought into her
presence the soul of the house she had gone to inspect, the man without
whom her inspection would not have been thought of.

She strained her eyes to see them, but was unable. Such was her
intentness, however, that it seemed as if her ears were performing the
functions of seeing as well as hearing. This extension of power can
almost be believed in at such moments. The deaf Dr. Kitto was probably
under the influence of a parallel fancy when he described his body as
having become, by long endeavour, so sensitive to vibrations that he had
gained the power of perceiving by it as by ears.

She could follow every word that the ramblers uttered. They were talking
no secrets. They were merely indulging in the ordinary vivacious chat of
relatives who have long been parted in person though not in soul. But
it was not to the words that Eustacia listened; she could not even
have recalled, a few minutes later, what the words were. It was to the
alternating voice that gave out about one-tenth of them--the voice that
had wished her good night. Sometimes this throat uttered Yes, sometimes
it uttered No; sometimes it made inquiries about a time worn denizen
of the place. Once it surprised her notions by remarking upon the
friendliness and geniality written in the faces of the hills around.

The three voices passed on, and decayed and died out upon her ear. Thus
much had been granted her; and all besides withheld. No event could have
been more exciting. During the greater part of the afternoon she had
been entrancing herself by imagining the fascination which must attend
a man come direct from beautiful Paris--laden with its atmosphere,
familiar with its charms. And this man had greeted her.

With the departure of the figures the profuse articulations of the women
wasted away from her memory; but the accents of the other stayed on.
Was there anything in the voice of Mrs. Yeobright's son--for Clym
it was--startling as a sound? No; it was simply comprehensive. All
emotional things were possible to the speaker of that "good night."
Eustacia's imagination supplied the rest--except the solution to one
riddle. What COULD the tastes of that man be who saw friendliness and
geniality in these shaggy hills?

On such occasions as this a thousand ideas pass through a highly charged
woman's head; and they indicate themselves on her face; but the changes,
though actual, are minute. Eustacia's features went through a rhythmical
succession of them. She glowed; remembering the mendacity of the
imagination, she flagged; then she freshened; then she fired; then she
cooled again. It was a cycle of aspects, produced by a cycle of visions.

Eustacia entered her own house; she was excited. Her grandfather was
enjoying himself over the fire, raking about the ashes and exposing the
red-hot surface of the turves, so that their lurid glare irradiated the
chimney-corner with the hues of a furnace.

"Why is it that we are never friendly with the Yeobrights?" she said,
coming forward and stretching her soft hands over the warmth. "I wish we
were. They seem to be very nice people."

"Be hanged if I know why," said the captain. "I liked the old man well
enough, though he was as rough as a hedge. But you would never have
cared to go there, even if you might have, I am well sure."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Your town tastes would find them far too countrified. They sit in the
kitchen, drink mead and elder-wine, and sand the floor to keep it clean.
A sensible way of life; but how would you like it?"

"I thought Mrs. Yeobright was a ladylike woman? A curate's daughter, was
she not?"

"Yes; but she was obliged to live as her husband did; and I suppose
she has taken kindly to it by this time. Ah, I recollect that I once
accidentally offended her, and I have never seen her since."

That night was an eventful one to Eustacia's brain, and one which she
hardly ever forgot. She dreamt a dream; and few human beings, from
Nebuchadnezzar to the Swaffham tinker, ever dreamt a more remarkable
one. Such an elaborately developed, perplexing, exciting dream was
certainly never dreamed by a girl in Eustacia's situation before. It had
as many ramifications as the Cretan labyrinth, as many fluctuations as
the northern lights, as much colour as a parterre in June, and was as
crowded with figures as a coronation. To Queen Scheherazade the dream
might have seemed not far removed from commonplace; and to a girl just
returned from all the courts of Europe it might have seemed not more
than interesting. But amid the circumstances of Eustacia's life it was
as wonderful as a dream could be.

There was, however, gradually evolved from its transformation scenes a
less extravagant episode, in which the heath dimly appeared behind the
general brilliancy of the action. She was dancing to wondrous music, and
her partner was the man in silver armour who had accompanied her through
the previous fantastic changes, the visor of his helmet being closed.
The mazes of the dance were ecstatic. Soft whispering came into her ear
from under the radiant helmet, and she felt like a woman in Paradise.
Suddenly these two wheeled out from the mass of dancers, dived into one
of the pools of the heath, and came out somewhere into an iridescent
hollow, arched with rainbows. "It must be here," said the voice by her
side, and blushingly looking up she saw him removing his casque to kiss
her. At that moment there was a cracking noise, and his figure fell into
fragments like a pack of cards.

She cried aloud. "O that I had seen his face!"

Eustacia awoke. The cracking had been that of the window shutter
downstairs, which the maid-servant was opening to let in the day, now
slowly increasing to Nature's meagre allowance at this sickly time of
the year. "O that I had seen his face!" she said again. "'Twas meant for
Mr. Yeobright!"

When she became cooler she perceived that many of the phases of the
dream had naturally arisen out of the images and fancies of the day
before. But this detracted little from its interest, which lay in the
excellent fuel it provided for newly kindled fervour. She was at the
modulating point between indifference and love, at the stage called
"having a fancy for." It occurs once in the history of the most gigantic
passions, and it is a period when they are in the hands of the weakest
will.

The perfervid woman was by this time half in love with a vision. The
fantastic nature of her passion, which lowered her as an intellect,
raised her as a soul. If she had had a little more self-control she
would have attenuated the emotion to nothing by sheer reasoning, and so
have killed it off. If she had had a little less pride she might have
gone and circumambulated the Yeobrights' premises at Blooms-End at any
maidenly sacrifice until she had seen him. But Eustacia did neither of
these things. She acted as the most exemplary might have acted, being
so influenced; she took an airing twice or thrice a day upon the Egdon
hills, and kept her eyes employed.

The first occasion passed, and he did not come that way.

She promenaded a second time, and was again the sole wanderer there.

The third time there was a dense fog; she looked around, but without
much hope. Even if he had been walking within twenty yards of her she
could not have seen him.

At the fourth attempt to encounter him it began to rain in torrents, and
she turned back.

The fifth sally was in the afternoon; it was fine, and she remained out
long, walking to the very top of the valley in which Blooms-End lay. She
saw the white paling about half a mile off; but he did not appear. It
was almost with heart-sickness that she came home and with a sense of
shame at her weakness. She resolved to look for the man from Paris no
more.

But Providence is nothing if not coquettish; and no sooner had Eustacia
formed this resolve than the opportunity came which, while sought, had
been entirely withholden.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Humphrey and Sam, the furze cutters, are engaged in bringing together and stacking up the furze, closely supervised by Captain Vye. They talk about Clym, his profession, his "strange notions," and his life in Paris. After Captain Vye leaves, Sam and Humphrey remark that Eustacia and Clym are made for each other, foreshadowing their attraction to one another. Eustacia herself begins daydreaming and goes to have a look at the Yeobrights' house. At Bloomsend, Clym's house, Mrs. Yeobright and her niece are busy preparing for Clym's arrival, picking apples and gathering holly. Throughout the dialogue Thomasin's affair with Wildeve is alluded to, and Thomasin makes her aunt promise not to tell Clym of it; if telling is required, she will do so herself. Eustacia waits on the heath for a glimpse of Clym. Though she does not see him clearly, she hears him, and something in his voice sets her dreaming. Expecting to meet him, she walks on the heath for the next few nights, but is unsuccessful in encountering him.