prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
BOOK SIX -- AFTERCOURSES
1--The Inevitable Movement Onward

The story of the deaths of Eustacia and Wildeve was told throughout
Egdon, and far beyond, for many weeks and months. All the known
incidents of their love were enlarged, distorted, touched up, and
modified, till the original reality bore but a slight resemblance to the
counterfeit presentation by surrounding tongues. Yet, upon the whole,
neither the man nor the woman lost dignity by sudden death. Misfortune
had struck them gracefully, cutting off their erratic histories with a
catastrophic dash, instead of, as with many, attenuating each life to an
uninteresting meagreness, through long years of wrinkles, neglect, and
decay.

On those most nearly concerned the effect was somewhat different.
Strangers who had heard of many such cases now merely heard of one more;
but immediately where a blow falls no previous imaginings amount to
appreciable preparation for it. The very suddenness of her bereavement
dulled, to some extent, Thomasin's feelings; yet irrationally enough, a
consciousness that the husband she had lost ought to have been a better
man did not lessen her mourning at all. On the contrary, this fact
seemed at first to set off the dead husband in his young wife's eyes,
and to be the necessary cloud to the rainbow.

But the horrors of the unknown had passed. Vague misgivings about her
future as a deserted wife were at an end. The worst had once been matter
of trembling conjecture; it was now matter of reason only, a limited
badness. Her chief interest, the little Eustacia, still remained. There
was humility in her grief, no defiance in her attitude; and when this is
the case a shaken spirit is apt to be stilled.

Could Thomasin's mournfulness now and Eustacia's serenity during life
have been reduced to common measure, they would have touched the same
mark nearly. But Thomasin's former brightness made shadow of that which
in a sombre atmosphere was light itself.

The spring came and calmed her; the summer came and soothed her; the
autumn arrived, and she began to be comforted, for her little girl
was strong and happy, growing in size and knowledge every day. Outward
events flattered Thomasin not a little. Wildeve had died intestate, and
she and the child were his only relatives. When administration had been
granted, all the debts paid, and the residue of her husband's uncle's
property had come into her hands, it was found that the sum waiting to
be invested for her own and the child's benefit was little less than ten
thousand pounds.

Where should she live? The obvious place was Blooms-End. The old rooms,
it is true, were not much higher than the between-decks of a frigate,
necessitating a sinking in the floor under the new clock-case she
brought from the inn, and the removal of the handsome brass knobs on its
head, before there was height for it to stand; but, such as the rooms
were, there were plenty of them, and the place was endeared to her by
every early recollection. Clym very gladly admitted her as a tenant,
confining his own existence to two rooms at the top of the back
staircase, where he lived on quietly, shut off from Thomasin and the
three servants she had thought fit to indulge in now that she was a
mistress of money, going his own ways, and thinking his own thoughts.

His sorrows had made some change in his outward appearance; and yet the
alteration was chiefly within. It might have been said that he had a
wrinkled mind. He had no enemies, and he could get nobody to reproach
him, which was why he so bitterly reproached himself.

He did sometimes think he had been ill-used by fortune, so far as to say
that to be born is a palpable dilemma, and that instead of men aiming to
advance in life with glory they should calculate how to retreat out
of it without shame. But that he and his had been sarcastically and
pitilessly handled in having such irons thrust into their souls he did
not maintain long. It is usually so, except with the sternest of men.
Human beings, in their generous endeavour to construct a hypothesis that
shall not degrade a First Cause, have always hesitated to conceive a
dominant power of lower moral quality than their own; and, even while
they sit down and weep by the waters of Babylon, invent excuses for the
oppression which prompts their tears.

Thus, though words of solace were vainly uttered in his presence, he
found relief in a direction of his own choosing when left to himself.
For a man of his habits the house and the hundred and twenty pounds a
year which he had inherited from his mother were enough to supply all
worldly needs. Resources do not depend upon gross amounts, but upon the
proportion of spendings to takings.

He frequently walked the heath alone, when the past seized upon him
with its shadowy hand, and held him there to listen to its tale.
His imagination would then people the spot with its ancient
inhabitants--forgotten Celtic tribes trod their tracks about him, and he
could almost live among them, look in their faces, and see them standing
beside the barrows which swelled around, untouched and perfect as at the
time of their erection. Those of the dyed barbarians who had chosen
the cultivable tracts were, in comparison with those who had left their
marks here, as writers on paper beside writers on parchment. Their
records had perished long ago by the plough, while the works of these
remained. Yet they all had lived and died unconscious of the different
fates awaiting their relics. It reminded him that unforeseen factors
operate in the evolution of immortality.

Winter again came round, with its winds, frosts, tame robins, and
sparkling starlight. The year previous Thomasin had hardly been
conscious of the season's advance; this year she laid her heart open to
external influences of every kind. The life of this sweet cousin, her
baby, and her servants, came to Clym's senses only in the form of sounds
through a wood partition as he sat over books of exceptionally large
type; but his ear became at last so accustomed to these slight noises
from the other part of the house that he almost could witness the
scenes they signified. A faint beat of half-seconds conjured up Thomasin
rocking the cradle, a wavering hum meant that she was singing the baby
to sleep, a crunching of sand as between millstones raised the picture
of Humphrey's, Fairway's, or Sam's heavy feet crossing the stone floor
of the kitchen; a light boyish step, and a gay tune in a high key,
betokened a visit from Grandfer Cantle; a sudden break-off in the
Grandfer's utterances implied the application to his lips of a mug of
small beer, a bustling and slamming of doors meant starting to go to
market; for Thomasin, in spite of her added scope of gentility, led a
ludicrously narrow life, to the end that she might save every possible
pound for her little daughter.

One summer day Clym was in the garden, immediately outside the parlour
window, which was as usual open. He was looking at the pot-flowers on
the sill; they had been revived and restored by Thomasin to the state in
which his mother had left them. He heard a slight scream from Thomasin,
who was sitting inside the room.

"O, how you frightened me!" she said to someone who had entered. "I
thought you were the ghost of yourself."

Clym was curious enough to advance a little further and look in at the
window. To his astonishment there stood within the room Diggory Venn,
no longer a reddleman, but exhibiting the strangely altered hues of
an ordinary Christian countenance, white shirt-front, light flowered
waistcoat, blue-spotted neckerchief, and bottle-green coat. Nothing in
this appearance was at all singular but the fact of its great difference
from what he had formerly been. Red, and all approach to red, was
carefully excluded from every article of clothes upon him; for what is
there that persons just out of harness dread so much as reminders of the
trade which has enriched them?

Yeobright went round to the door and entered.

"I was so alarmed!" said Thomasin, smiling from one to the other. "I
couldn't believe that he had got white of his own accord! It seemed
supernatural."

"I gave up dealing in reddle last Christmas," said Venn. "It was a
profitable trade, and I found that by that time I had made enough to
take the dairy of fifty cows that my father had in his lifetime. I
always thought of getting to that place again if I changed at all, and
now I am there."

"How did you manage to become white, Diggory?" Thomasin asked.

"I turned so by degrees, ma'am."

"You look much better than ever you did before."

Venn appeared confused; and Thomasin, seeing how inadvertently she had
spoken to a man who might possibly have tender feelings for her still,
blushed a little. Clym saw nothing of this, and added good-humouredly--

"What shall we have to frighten Thomasin's baby with, now you have
become a human being again?"

"Sit down, Diggory," said Thomasin, "and stay to tea."

Venn moved as if he would retire to the kitchen, when Thomasin said with
pleasant pertness as she went on with some sewing, "Of course you must
sit down here. And where does your fifty-cow dairy lie, Mr. Venn?"

"At Stickleford--about two miles to the right of Alderworth, ma'am,
where the meads begin. I have thought that if Mr. Yeobright would like
to pay me a visit sometimes he shouldn't stay away for want of asking.
I'll not bide to tea this afternoon, thank'ee, for I've got something on
hand that must be settled. 'Tis Maypole-day tomorrow, and the Shadwater
folk have clubbed with a few of your neighbours here to have a pole just
outside your palings in the heath, as it is a nice green place." Venn
waved his elbow towards the patch in front of the house. "I have been
talking to Fairway about it," he continued, "and I said to him that
before we put up the pole it would be as well to ask Mrs. Wildeve."

"I can say nothing against it," she answered. "Our property does not
reach an inch further than the white palings."

"But you might not like to see a lot of folk going crazy round a stick,
under your very nose?"

"I shall have no objection at all."

Venn soon after went away, and in the evening Yeobright strolled as far
as Fairway's cottage. It was a lovely May sunset, and the birch trees
which grew on this margin of the vast Egdon wilderness had put on their
new leaves, delicate as butterflies' wings, and diaphanous as amber.
Beside Fairway's dwelling was an open space recessed from the road, and
here were now collected all the young people from within a radius of a
couple of miles. The pole lay with one end supported on a trestle,
and women were engaged in wreathing it from the top downwards with
wild-flowers. The instincts of merry England lingered on here with
exceptional vitality, and the symbolic customs which tradition has
attached to each season of the year were yet a reality on Egdon. Indeed,
the impulses of all such outlandish hamlets are pagan still--in these
spots homage to nature, self-adoration, frantic gaieties, fragments of
Teutonic rites to divinities whose names are forgotten, seem in some way
or other to have survived mediaeval doctrine.

Yeobright did not interrupt the preparations, and went home again. The
next morning, when Thomasin withdrew the curtains of her bedroom window,
there stood the Maypole in the middle of the green, its top cutting into
the sky. It had sprung up in the night, or rather early morning, like
Jack's bean-stalk. She opened the casement to get a better view of the
garlands and posies that adorned it. The sweet perfume of the flowers
had already spread into the surrounding air, which, being free from
every taint, conducted to her lips a full measure of the fragrance
received from the spire of blossom in its midst. At the top of the
pole were crossed hoops decked with small flowers; beneath these came a
milk-white zone of Maybloom; then a zone of bluebells, then of cowslips,
then of lilacs, then of ragged-robins, daffodils, and so on, till the
lowest stage was reached. Thomasin noticed all these, and was delighted
that the May revel was to be so near.

When afternoon came people began to gather on the green, and Yeobright
was interested enough to look out upon them from the open window of
his room. Soon after this Thomasin walked out from the door immediately
below and turned her eyes up to her cousin's face. She was dressed
more gaily than Yeobright had ever seen her dressed since the time of
Wildeve's death, eighteen months before; since the day of her marriage
even she had not exhibited herself to such advantage.

"How pretty you look today, Thomasin!" he said. "Is it because of the
Maypole?"

"Not altogether." And then she blushed and dropped her eyes, which he
did not specially observe, though her manner seemed to him to be rather
peculiar, considering that she was only addressing himself. Could it be
possible that she had put on her summer clothes to please him?

He recalled her conduct towards him throughout the last few weeks, when
they had often been working together in the garden, just as they had
formerly done when they were boy and girl under his mother's eye. What
if her interest in him were not so entirely that of a relative as it had
formerly been? To Yeobright any possibility of this sort was a serious
matter; and he almost felt troubled at the thought of it. Every pulse of
loverlike feeling which had not been stilled during Eustacia's lifetime
had gone into the grave with her. His passion for her had occurred too
far on in his manhood to leave fuel enough on hand for another fire
of that sort, as may happen with more boyish loves. Even supposing him
capable of loving again, that love would be a plant of slow and laboured
growth, and in the end only small and sickly, like an autumn-hatched
bird.

He was so distressed by this new complexity that when the enthusiastic
brass band arrived and struck up, which it did about five o'clock, with
apparently wind enough among its members to blow down his house, he
withdrew from his rooms by the back door, went down the garden, through
the gate in the hedge, and away out of sight. He could not bear to
remain in the presence of enjoyment today, though he had tried hard.

Nothing was seen of him for four hours. When he came back by the same
path it was dusk, and the dews were coating every green thing. The
boisterous music had ceased; but, entering the premises as he did from
behind, he could not see if the May party had all gone till he had
passed through Thomasin's division of the house to the front door.
Thomasin was standing within the porch alone.

She looked at him reproachfully. "You went away just when it began,
Clym," she said.

"Yes. I felt I could not join in. You went out with them, of course?"

"No, I did not."

"You appeared to be dressed on purpose."

"Yes, but I could not go out alone; so many people were there. One is
there now."

Yeobright strained his eyes across the dark-green patch beyond the
paling, and near the black form of the Maypole he discerned a shadowy
figure, sauntering idly up and down. "Who is it?" he said.

"Mr. Venn," said Thomasin.

"You might have asked him to come in, I think, Tamsie. He has been very
kind to you first and last."

"I will now," she said; and, acting on the impulse, went through the
wicket to where Venn stood under the Maypole.

"It is Mr. Venn, I think?" she inquired.

Venn started as if he had not seen her--artful man that he was--and
said, "Yes."

"Will you come in?"

"I am afraid that I--"

"I have seen you dancing this evening, and you had the very best of the
girls for your partners. Is it that you won't come in because you wish
to stand here, and think over the past hours of enjoyment?"

"Well, that's partly it," said Mr. Venn, with ostentatious sentiment.
"But the main reason why I am biding here like this is that I want to
wait till the moon rises."

"To see how pretty the Maypole looks in the moonlight?"

"No. To look for a glove that was dropped by one of the maidens."

Thomasin was speechless with surprise. That a man who had to walk
some four or five miles to his home should wait here for such a reason
pointed to only one conclusion--the man must be amazingly interested in
that glove's owner.

"Were you dancing with her, Diggory?" she asked, in a voice which
revealed that he had made himself considerably more interesting to her
by this disclosure.

"No," he sighed.

"And you will not come in, then?"

"Not tonight, thank you, ma'am."

"Shall I lend you a lantern to look for the young person's glove, Mr.
Venn?"

"O no; it is not necessary, Mrs. Wildeve, thank you. The moon will rise
in a few minutes."

Thomasin went back to the porch. "Is he coming in?" said Clym, who had
been waiting where she had left him.

"He would rather not tonight," she said, and then passed by him into the
house; whereupon Clym too retired to his own rooms.

When Clym was gone Thomasin crept upstairs in the dark, and, just
listening by the cot, to assure herself that the child was asleep, she
went to the window, gently lifted the corner of the white curtain, and
looked out. Venn was still there. She watched the growth of the faint
radiance appearing in the sky by the eastern hill, till presently
the edge of the moon burst upwards and flooded the valley with light.
Diggory's form was now distinct on the green; he was moving about in a
bowed attitude, evidently scanning the grass for the precious missing
article, walking in zigzags right and left till he should have passed
over every foot of the ground.

"How very ridiculous!" Thomasin murmured to herself, in a tone which was
intended to be satirical. "To think that a man should be so silly as to
go mooning about like that for a girl's glove! A respectable dairyman,
too, and a man of money as he is now. What a pity!"

At last Venn appeared to find it; whereupon he stood up and raised it to
his lips. Then placing it in his breastpocket--the nearest receptacle to
a man's heart permitted by modern raiment--he ascended the valley in a
mathematically direct line towards his distant home in the meadows.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
2--Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road

Clym saw little of Thomasin for several days after this; and when they
met she was more silent than usual. At length he asked her what she was
thinking of so intently.

"I am thoroughly perplexed," she said candidly. "I cannot for my life
think who it is that Diggory Venn is so much in love with. None of the
girls at the Maypole were good enough for him, and yet she must have
been there."

Clym tried to imagine Venn's choice for a moment; but ceasing to be
interested in the question he went on again with his gardening.

No clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time. But one
afternoon Thomasin was upstairs getting ready for a walk, when she had
occasion to come to the landing and call "Rachel." Rachel was a girl
about thirteen, who carried the baby out for airings; and she came
upstairs at the call.

"Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?"
inquired Thomasin. "It is the fellow to this one."

Rachel did not reply.

"Why don't you answer?" said her mistress.

"I think it is lost, ma'am."

"Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once."

Rachel appeared as one dreadfully troubled, and at last began to cry.
"Please, ma'am, on the day of the Maypole I had none to wear, and I seed
yours on the table, and I thought I would borrow 'em. I did not mean to
hurt 'em at all, but one of them got lost. Somebody gave me some money
to buy another pair for you, but I have not been able to go anywhere to
get 'em."

"Who's somebody?"

"Mr. Venn."

"Did he know it was my glove?"

"Yes. I told him."

Thomasin was so surprised by the explanation that she quite forgot
to lecture the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not move
further than to turn her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole had
stood. She remained thinking, then said to herself that she would not go
out that afternoon, but would work hard at the baby's unfinished lovely
plaid frock, cut on the cross in the newest fashion. How she managed to
work hard, and yet do no more than she had done at the end of two hours,
would have been a mystery to anyone not aware that the recent incident
was of a kind likely to divert her industry from a manual to a mental
channel.

Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of walking
in the heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now of the
age when it is a matter of doubt with such characters whether they are
intended to walk through the world on their hands or on their feet; so
that they get into painful complications by trying both. It was very
pleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried the child to some lonely
place, to give her a little private practice on the green turf and
shepherd's-thyme, which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon them
when equilibrium was lost.

Once, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to remove
bits of stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child's
path, that the journey might not be brought to an untimely end by
some insuperable barrier a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed by
discovering that a man on horseback was almost close beside her, the
soft natural carpet having muffled the horse's tread. The rider, who was
Venn, waved his hat in the air and bowed gallantly.

"Diggory, give me my glove," said Thomasin, whose manner it was under
any circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which engrossed
her.

Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and
handed the glove.

"Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it."

"It is very good of you to say so."

"O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets so
indifferent that I was surprised to know you thought of me."

"If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn't have been
surprised."

"Ah, no," she said quickly. "But men of your character are mostly so
independent."

"What is my character?" he asked.

"I don't exactly know," said Thomasin simply, "except it is to cover up
your feelings under a practical manner, and only to show them when you
are alone."

"Ah, how do you know that?" said Venn strategically.

"Because," said she, stopping to put the little girl, who had managed to
get herself upside down, right end up again, "because I do."

"You mustn't judge by folks in general," said Venn. "Still I don't know
much what feelings are nowadays. I have got so mixed up with business
of one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapour
like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is
all my dream."

"O Diggory, how wicked!" said Thomasin reproachfully, and looking at him
in exact balance between taking his words seriously and judging them as
said to tease her.

"Yes, 'tis rather a rum course," said Venn, in the bland tone of one
comfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome.

"You, who used to be so nice!"

"Well, that's an argument I rather like, because what a man has once
been he may be again." Thomasin blushed. "Except that it is rather
harder now," Venn continued.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you be richer than you were at that time."

"O no--not much. I have made it nearly all over to the baby, as it was
my duty to do, except just enough to live on."

"I am rather glad of that," said Venn softly, and regarding her from the
corner of his eye, "for it makes it easier for us to be friendly."

Thomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of a
not unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on.

This conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near the old
Roman road, a place much frequented by Thomasin. And it might have been
observed that she did not in future walk that way less often from having
met Venn there now. Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thither
because he had met Thomasin in the same place might easily have been
guessed from her proceedings about two months later in the same year.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
3--The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin

Throughout this period Yeobright had more or less pondered on his duty
to his cousin Thomasin. He could not help feeling that it would be a
pitiful waste of sweet material if the tender-natured thing should be
doomed from this early stage of her life onwards to dribble away her
winsome qualities on lonely gorse and fern. But he felt this as an
economist merely, and not as a lover. His passion for Eustacia had been
a sort of conserve of his whole life, and he had nothing more of that
supreme quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing was not to
entertain any idea of marriage with Thomasin, even to oblige her.

But this was not all. Years ago there had been in his mother's mind a
great fancy about Thomasin and himself. It had not positively amounted
to a desire, but it had always been a favourite dream. That they
should be man and wife in good time, if the happiness of neither were
endangered thereby, was the fancy in question. So that what course save
one was there now left for any son who reverenced his mother's memory
as Yeobright did? It is an unfortunate fact that any particular whim of
parents, which might have been dispersed by half an hour's conversation
during their lives, becomes sublimated by their deaths into a fiat the
most absolute, with such results to conscientious children as those
parents, had they lived, would have been the first to decry.

Had only Yeobright's own future been involved he would have proposed to
Thomasin with a ready heart. He had nothing to lose by carrying out a
dead mother's hope. But he dreaded to contemplate Thomasin wedded to the
mere corpse of a lover that he now felt himself to be. He had but three
activities alive in him. One was his almost daily walk to the little
graveyard wherein his mother lay, another, his just as frequent visits
by night to the more distant enclosure which numbered his Eustacia among
its dead; the third was self-preparation for a vocation which alone
seemed likely to satisfy his cravings--that of an itinerant preacher
of the eleventh commandment. It was difficult to believe that Thomasin
would be cheered by a husband with such tendencies as these.

Yet he resolved to ask her, and let her decide for herself. It was even
with a pleasant sense of doing his duty that he went downstairs to her
one evening for this purpose, when the sun was printing on the valley
the same long shadow of the housetop that he had seen lying there times
out of number while his mother lived.

Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the front garden. "I
have long been wanting, Thomasin," he began, "to say something about a
matter that concerns both our futures."

"And you are going to say it now?" she remarked quickly, colouring as
she met his gaze. "Do stop a minute, Clym, and let me speak first, for
oddly enough, I have been wanting to say something to you."

"By all means say on, Tamsie."

"I suppose nobody can overhear us?" she went on, casting her eyes around
and lowering her voice. "Well, first you will promise me this--that you
won't be angry and call me anything harsh if you disagree with what I
propose?"

Yeobright promised, and she continued: "What I want is your advice,
for you are my relation--I mean, a sort of guardian to me--aren't you,
Clym?"

"Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am, of
course," he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift.

"I am thinking of marrying," she then observed blandly. "But I shall not
marry unless you assure me that you approve of such a step. Why don't
you speak?"

"I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am very glad to
hear such news. I shall approve, of course, dear Tamsie. Who can it be?
I am quite at a loss to guess. No I am not--'tis the old doctor!--not
that I mean to call him old, for he is not very old after all. Ah--I
noticed when he attended you last time!"

"No, no," she said hastily. "'Tis Mr. Venn."

Clym's face suddenly became grave.

"There, now, you don't like him, and I wish I hadn't mentioned him!" she
exclaimed almost petulantly. "And I shouldn't have done it, either, only
he keeps on bothering me so till I don't know what to do!"

Clym looked at the heath. "I like Venn well enough," he answered at
last. "He is a very honest and at the same time astute man. He is clever
too, as is proved by his having got you to favour him. But really,
Thomasin, he is not quite--"

"Gentleman enough for me? That is just what I feel. I am sorry now that
I asked you, and I won't think any more of him. At the same time I must
marry him if I marry anybody--that I WILL say!"

"I don't see that," said Clym, carefully concealing every clue to his
own interrupted intention, which she plainly had not guessed. "You might
marry a professional man, or somebody of that sort, by going into the
town to live and forming acquaintances there."

"I am not fit for town life--so very rural and silly as I always have
been. Do not you yourself notice my countrified ways?"

"Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don't now."

"That's because you have got countrified too. O, I couldn't live in a
street for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous old place; but I have got
used to it, and I couldn't be happy anywhere else at all."

"Neither could I," said Clym.

"Then how could you say that I should marry some town man? I am sure,
say what you will, that I must marry Diggory, if I marry at all. He has
been kinder to me than anybody else, and has helped me in many ways that
I don't know of!" Thomasin almost pouted now.

"Yes, he has," said Clym in a neutral tone. "Well, I wish with all my
heart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget what my mother
thought on that matter, and it goes rather against me not to respect her
opinion. There is too much reason why we should do the little we can to
respect it now."

"Very well, then," sighed Thomasin. "I will say no more."

"But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think."

"O no--I don't want to be rebellious in that way," she said sadly. "I
had no business to think of him--I ought to have thought of my family.
What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!" Her lips trembled, and
she turned away to hide a tear.

Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in a
measure relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question in
relation to himself was shelved. Through several succeeding days he saw
her at different times from the window of his room moping disconsolately
about the garden. He was half angry with her for choosing Venn; then he
was grieved at having put himself in the way of Venn's happiness, who
was, after all, as honest and persevering a young fellow as any on
Egdon, since he had turned over a new leaf. In short, Clym did not know
what to do.

When next they met she said abruptly, "He is much more respectable now
than he was then!"

"Who? O yes--Diggory Venn."

"Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman."

"Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don't know all the particulars of my mother's
wish. So you had better use your own discretion."

"You will always feel that I slighted your mother's memory."

"No, I will not. I shall think you are convinced that, had she seen
Diggory in his present position, she would have considered him a fitting
husband for you. Now, that's my real feeling. Don't consult me any more,
but do as you like, Thomasin. I shall be content."

It is to be supposed that Thomasin was convinced; for a few days after
this, when Clym strayed into a part of the heath that he had not lately
visited, Humphrey, who was at work there, said to him, "I am glad to see
that Mrs. Wildeve and Venn have made it up again, seemingly."

"Have they?" said Clym abstractedly.

"Yes; and he do contrive to stumble upon her whenever she walks out on
fine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright, I can't help feeling
that your cousin ought to have married you. 'Tis a pity to make two
chimleycorners where there need be only one. You could get her away from
him now, 'tis my belief, if you were only to set about it."

"How can I have the conscience to marry after having driven two women to
their deaths? Don't think such a thing, Humphrey. After my experience
I should consider it too much of a burlesque to go to church and take a
wife. In the words of Job, 'I have made a covenant with mine eyes; when
then should I think upon a maid?'"

"No, Mr. Clym, don't fancy that about driving two women to their deaths.
You shouldn't say it."

"Well, we'll leave that out," said Yeobright. "But anyhow God has set a
mark upon me which wouldn't look well in a love-making scene. I have two
ideas in my head, and no others. I am going to keep a night-school;
and I am going to turn preacher. What have you got to say to that,
Humphrey?"

"I'll come and hear 'ee with all my heart."

"Thanks. 'Tis all I wish."

As Clym descended into the valley Thomasin came down by the other path,
and met him at the gate. "What do you think I have to tell you, Clym?"
she said, looking archly over her shoulder at him.

"I can guess," he replied.

She scrutinized his face. "Yes, you guess right. It is going to be after
all. He thinks I may as well make up my mind, and I have got to think
so too. It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you don't
object."

"Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you see your way
clear to happiness again. My sex owes you every amends for the treatment
you received in days gone by."*

     * The writer may state here that the original conception of
     the story did not design a marriage between Thomasin and
     Venn. He was to have retained his isolated and weird
     character to the last, and to have disappeared mysteriously
     from the heath, nobody knowing whither--Thomasin remaining a
     widow. But certain circumstances of serial publication led
     to a change of intent.

Readers can therefore choose between the endings, and those with an
austere artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion to be
the true one.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
4--Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His Vocation

Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven o'clock on the
morning fixed for the wedding would have found that, while Yeobright's
house was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great activity came from
the dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway. It was chiefly
a noise of feet, briskly crunching hither and thither over the sanded
floor within. One man only was visible outside, and he seemed to be
later at an appointment than he had intended to be, for he hastened up
to the door, lifted the latch, and walked in without ceremony.

The scene within was not quite the customary one. Standing about the
room was the little knot of men who formed the chief part of the Egdon
coterie, there being present Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle, Humphrey,
Christian, and one or two turf-cutters. It was a warm day, and the men
were as a matter of course in their shirtsleeves, except Christian, who
had always a nervous fear of parting with a scrap of his clothing when
in anybody's house but his own. Across the stout oak table in the middle
of the room was thrown a mass of striped linen, which Grandfer Cantle
held down on one side, and Humphrey on the other, while Fairway rubbed
its surface with a yellow lump, his face being damp and creased with the
effort of the labour.

"Waxing a bed-tick, souls?" said the newcomer.

"Yes, Sam," said Grandfer Cantle, as a man too busy to waste words.
"Shall I stretch this corner a shade tighter, Timothy?"

Fairway replied, and the waxing went on with unabated vigour. "'Tis
going to be a good bed, by the look o't," continued Sam, after an
interval of silence. "Who may it be for?"

"'Tis a present for the new folks that's going to set up housekeeping,"
said Christian, who stood helpless and overcome by the majesty of the
proceedings.

"Ah, to be sure; and a valuable one, 'a b'lieve."

"Beds be dear to fokes that don't keep geese, bain't they, Mister
Fairway?" said Christian, as to an omniscient being.

"Yes," said the furze-dealer, standing up, giving his forehead a
thorough mopping, and handing the beeswax to Humphrey, who succeeded
at the rubbing forthwith. "Not that this couple be in want of one, but
'twas well to show 'em a bit of friendliness at this great racketing
vagary of their lives. I set up both my own daughters in one when they
was married, and there have been feathers enough for another in the
house the last twelve months. Now then, neighbours, I think we have
laid on enough wax. Grandfer Cantle, you turn the tick the right way
outwards, and then I'll begin to shake in the feathers."

When the bed was in proper trim Fairway and Christian brought forward
vast paper bags, stuffed to the full, but light as balloons, and began
to turn the contents of each into the receptacle just prepared. As bag
after bag was emptied, airy tufts of down and feathers floated about the
room in increasing quantity till, through a mishap of Christian's, who
shook the contents of one bag outside the tick, the atmosphere of the
room became dense with gigantic flakes, which descended upon the workers
like a windless snowstorm.

"I never saw such a clumsy chap as you, Christian," said Grandfer
Cantle severely. "You might have been the son of a man that's never been
outside Blooms-End in his life for all the wit you have. Really all the
soldiering and smartness in the world in the father seems to count for
nothing in forming the nater of the son. As far as that chief Christian
is concerned I might as well have stayed at home and seed nothing,
like all the rest of ye here. Though, as far as myself is concerned, a
dashing spirit has counted for sommat, to be sure!"

"Don't ye let me down so, Father; I feel no bigger than a ninepin after
it. I've made but a bruckle hit, I'm afeard."

"Come, come. Never pitch yerself in such a low key as that, Christian;
you should try more," said Fairway.

"Yes, you should try more," echoed the Grandfer with insistence, as
if he had been the first to make the suggestion. "In common conscience
every man ought either to marry or go for a soldier. 'Tis a scandal to
the nation to do neither one nor t'other. I did both, thank God! Neither
to raise men nor to lay 'em low--that shows a poor do-nothing spirit
indeed."

"I never had the nerve to stand fire," faltered Christian. "But as to
marrying, I own I've asked here and there, though without much fruit
from it. Yes, there's some house or other that might have had a man for
a master--such as he is--that's now ruled by a woman alone. Still it
might have been awkward if I had found her; for, d'ye see, neighbours,
there'd have been nobody left at home to keep down Father's spirits to
the decent pitch that becomes a old man."

"And you've your work cut out to do that, my son," said Grandfer Cantle
smartly. "I wish that the dread of infirmities was not so strong in
me!--I'd start the very first thing tomorrow to see the world over
again! But seventy-one, though nothing at home, is a high figure for a
rover.... Ay, seventy-one, last Candlemasday. Gad, I'd sooner have it in
guineas than in years!" And the old man sighed.

"Don't you be mournful, Grandfer," said Fairway. "Empt some more
feathers into the bed-tick, and keep up yer heart. Though rather lean in
the stalks you be a green-leaved old man still. There's time enough left
to ye yet to fill whole chronicles."

"Begad, I'll go to 'em, Timothy--to the married pair!" said Granfer
Cantle in an encouraged voice, and starting round briskly. "I'll go to
'em tonight and sing a wedding song, hey? 'Tis like me to do so, you
know; and they'd see it as such. My 'Down in Cupid's Gardens' was well
liked in four; still, I've got others as good, and even better. What do
you say to my

     She cal'-led to' her love'
     From the lat'-tice a-bove,
     'O come in' from the fog-gy fog'-gy dew'.'

'Twould please 'em well at such a time! Really, now I come to think of
it, I haven't turned my tongue in my head to the shape of a real good
song since Old Midsummer night, when we had the 'Barley Mow' at the
Woman; and 'tis a pity to neglect your strong point where there's few
that have the compass for such things!"

"So 'tis, so 'tis," said Fairway. "Now gie the bed a shake down. We've
put in seventy pounds of best feathers, and I think that's as many as
the tick will fairly hold. A bit and a drap wouldn't be amiss now, I
reckon. Christian, maul down the victuals from corner-cupboard if canst
reach, man, and I'll draw a drap o' sommat to wet it with."

They sat down to a lunch in the midst of their work, feathers around,
above, and below them; the original owners of which occasionally came
to the open door and cackled begrudgingly at sight of such a quantity of
their old clothes.

"Upon my soul I shall be chokt," said Fairway when, having extracted a
feather from his mouth, he found several others floating on the mug as
it was handed round.

"I've swallered several; and one had a tolerable quill," said Sam
placidly from the corner.

"Hullo--what's that--wheels I hear coming?" Grandfer Cantle exclaimed,
jumping up and hastening to the door. "Why, 'tis they back again--I
didn't expect 'em yet this half-hour. To be sure, how quick marrying can
be done when you are in the mind for't!"

"O yes, it can soon be DONE," said Fairway, as if something should be
added to make the statement complete.

He arose and followed the Grandfer, and the rest also went to the door.
In a moment an open fly was driven past, in which sat Venn and Mrs.
Venn, Yeobright, and a grand relative of Venn's who had come from
Budmouth for the occasion. The fly had been hired at the nearest town,
regardless of distance and cost, there being nothing on Egdon Heath, in
Venn's opinion, dignified enough for such an event when such a woman
as Thomasin was the bride; and the church was too remote for a walking
bridal-party.

As the fly passed the group which had run out from the homestead they
shouted "Hurrah!" and waved their hands; feathers and down floating
from their hair, their sleeves, and the folds of their garments at every
motion, and Grandfer Cantle's seals dancing merrily in the sunlight as
he twirled himself about. The driver of the fly turned a supercilious
gaze upon them; he even treated the wedded pair themselves with
something like condescension; for in what other state than heathen could
people, rich or poor, exist who were doomed to abide in such a world's
end as Egdon? Thomasin showed no such superiority to the group at the
door, fluttering her hand as quickly as a bird's wing towards them, and
asking Diggory, with tears in her eyes, if they ought not to alight and
speak to these kind neighbours. Venn, however, suggested that, as they
were all coming to the house in the evening, this was hardly necessary.

After this excitement the saluting party returned to their occupation,
and the stuffing and sewing were soon afterwards finished, when Fairway
harnessed a horse, wrapped up the cumbrous present, and drove off with
it in the cart to Venn's house at Stickleford.

Yeobright, having filled the office at the wedding service which
naturally fell to his hands, and afterwards returned to the house with
the husband and wife, was indisposed to take part in the feasting and
dancing that wound up the evening. Thomasin was disappointed.

"I wish I could be there without dashing your spirits," he said. "But I
might be too much like the skull at the banquet."

"No, no."

"Well, dear, apart from that, if you would excuse me, I should be glad.
I know it seems unkind; but, dear Thomasin, I fear I should not be happy
in the company--there, that's the truth of it. I shall always be coming
to see you at your new home, you know, so that my absence now will not
matter."

"Then I give in. Do whatever will be most comfortable to yourself."

Clym retired to his lodging at the housetop much relieved, and occupied
himself during the afternoon in noting down the heads of a sermon, with
which he intended to initiate all that really seemed practicable of the
scheme that had originally brought him hither, and that he had so long
kept in view under various modifications, and through evil and good
report. He had tested and weighed his convictions again and again, and
saw no reason to alter them, though he had considerably lessened his
plan. His eyesight, by long humouring in his native air, had grown
stronger, but not sufficiently strong to warrant his attempting his
extensive educational project. Yet he did not repine--there was still
more than enough of an unambitious sort to tax all his energies and
occupy all his hours.

Evening drew on, and sounds of life and movement in the lower part of
the domicile became more pronounced, the gate in the palings clicking
incessantly. The party was to be an early one, and all the guests
were assembled long before it was dark. Yeobright went down the back
staircase and into the heath by another path than that in front,
intending to walk in the open air till the party was over, when he would
return to wish Thomasin and her husband good-bye as they departed. His
steps were insensibly bent towards Mistover by the path that he had
followed on that terrible morning when he learnt the strange news from
Susan's boy.

He did not turn aside to the cottage, but pushed on to an eminence,
whence he could see over the whole quarter that had once been Eustacia's
home. While he stood observing the darkening scene somebody came up.
Clym, seeing him but dimly, would have let him pass silently, had not
the pedestrian, who was Charley, recognized the young man and spoken to
him.

"Charley, I have not seen you for a length of time," said Yeobright. "Do
you often walk this way?"

"No," the lad replied. "I don't often come outside the bank."

"You were not at the Maypole."

"No," said Charley, in the same listless tone. "I don't care for that
sort of thing now."

"You rather liked Miss Eustacia, didn't you?" Yeobright gently asked.
Eustacia had frequently told him of Charley's romantic attachment.

"Yes, very much. Ah, I wish--"

"Yes?"

"I wish, Mr. Yeobright, you could give me something to keep that once
belonged to her--if you don't mind."

"I shall be very happy to. It will give me very great pleasure, Charley.
Let me think what I have of hers that you would like. But come with me
to the house, and I'll see."

They walked towards Blooms-End together. When they reached the front it
was dark, and the shutters were closed, so that nothing of the interior
could be seen.

"Come round this way," said Clym. "My entrance is at the back for the
present."

The two went round and ascended the crooked stair in darkness till
Clym's sitting-room on the upper floor was reached, where he lit a
candle, Charley entering gently behind. Yeobright searched his desk,
and taking out a sheet of tissue-paper unfolded from it two or three
undulating locks of raven hair, which fell over the paper like black
streams. From these he selected one, wrapped it up, and gave it to the
lad, whose eyes had filled with tears. He kissed the packet, put it in
his pocket, and said in a voice of emotion, "O, Mr. Clym, how good you
are to me!"

"I will go a little way with you," said Clym. And amid the noise of
merriment from below they descended. Their path to the front led them
close to a little side window, whence the rays of candles streamed
across the shrubs. The window, being screened from general observation
by the bushes, had been left unblinded, so that a person in this private
nook could see all that was going on within the room which contained
the wedding guests, except in so far as vision was hindered by the green
antiquity of the panes.

"Charley, what are they doing?" said Clym. "My sight is weaker again
tonight, and the glass of this window is not good."

Charley wiped his own eyes, which were rather blurred with moisture, and
stepped closer to the casement. "Mr. Venn is asking Christian Cantle to
sing," he replied, "and Christian is moving about in his chair as if
he were much frightened at the question, and his father has struck up a
stave instead of him."

"Yes, I can hear the old man's voice," said Clym. "So there's to be no
dancing, I suppose. And is Thomasin in the room? I see something moving
in front of the candles that resembles her shape, I think."

"Yes. She do seem happy. She is red in the face, and laughing at
something Fairway has said to her. O my!"

"What noise was that?" said Clym.

"Mr. Venn is so tall that he knocked his head against the beam in gieing
a skip as he passed under. Mrs. Venn has run up quite frightened and now
she's put her hand to his head to feel if there's a lump. And now they
be all laughing again as if nothing had happened."

"Do any of them seem to care about my not being there?" Clym asked.

"No, not a bit in the world. Now they are all holding up their glasses
and drinking somebody's health."

"I wonder if it is mine?"

"No, 'tis Mr. and Mrs. Venn's, because he is making a hearty sort of
speech. There--now Mrs. Venn has got up, and is going away to put on her
things, I think."

"Well, they haven't concerned themselves about me, and it is quite right
they should not. It is all as it should be, and Thomasin at least is
happy. We will not stay any longer now, as they will soon be coming out
to go home."

He accompanied the lad into the heath on his way home, and, returning
alone to the house a quarter of an hour later, found Venn and Thomasin
ready to start, all the guests having departed in his absence. The
wedded pair took their seats in the four-wheeled dogcart which Venn's
head milker and handy man had driven from Stickleford to fetch them in;
little Eustacia and the nurse were packed securely upon the open flap
behind; and the milker, on an ancient overstepping pony, whose shoes
clashed like cymbals at every tread, rode in the rear, in the manner of
a body-servant of the last century.

"Now we leave you in absolute possession of your own house again," said
Thomasin as she bent down to wish her cousin good night. "It will be
rather lonely for you, Clym, after the hubbub we have been making."

"O, that's no inconvenience," said Clym, smiling rather sadly. And then
the party drove off and vanished in the night shades, and Yeobright
entered the house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound that
greeted him, for not a soul remained; Christian, who acted as cook,
valet, and gardener to Clym, sleeping at his father's house. Yeobright
sat down in one of the vacant chairs, and remained in thought a long
time. His mother's old chair was opposite; it had been sat in that
evening by those who had scarcely remembered that it ever was hers. But
to Clym she was almost a presence there, now as always. Whatever she
was in other people's memories, in his she was the sublime saint whose
radiance even his tenderness for Eustacia could not obscure. But his
heart was heavy, that Mother had NOT crowned him in the day of his
espousals and in the day of the gladness of his heart. And events had
borne out the accuracy of her judgment, and proved the devotedness of
her care. He should have heeded her for Eustacia's sake even more than
for his own. "It was all my fault," he whispered. "O, my mother, my
mother! would to God that I could live my life again, and endure for you
what you endured for me!"

On the Sunday after this wedding an unusual sight was to be seen on
Rainbarrow. From a distance there simply appeared to be a motionless
figure standing on the top of the tumulus, just as Eustacia had stood on
that lonely summit some two years and a half before. But now it was fine
warm weather, with only a summer breeze blowing, and early afternoon
instead of dull twilight. Those who ascended to the immediate
neighbourhood of the Barrow perceived that the erect form in the centre,
piercing the sky, was not really alone. Round him upon the slopes of the
Barrow a number of heathmen and women were reclining or sitting at their
ease. They listened to the words of the man in their midst, who was
preaching, while they abstractedly pulled heather, stripped ferns, or
tossed pebbles down the slope. This was the first of a series of moral
lectures or Sermons on the Mount, which were to be delivered from the
same place every Sunday afternoon as long as the fine weather lasted.

The commanding elevation of Rainbarrow had been chosen for two reasons:
first, that it occupied a central position among the remote cottages
around; secondly, that the preacher thereon could be seen from all
adjacent points as soon as he arrived at his post, the view of him being
thus a convenient signal to those stragglers who wished to draw near.
The speaker was bareheaded, and the breeze at each waft gently lifted
and lowered his hair, somewhat too thin for a man of his years, these
still numbering less than thirty-three. He wore a shade over his eyes,
and his face was pensive and lined; but, though these bodily features
were marked with decay there was no defect in the tones of his voice,
which were rich, musical, and stirring. He stated that his discourses to
people were to be sometimes secular, and sometimes religious, but never
dogmatic; and that his texts would be taken from all kinds of books.
This afternoon the words were as follows:--

"'And the king rose up to meet her, and bowed himself unto her, and sat
down on his throne, and caused a seat to be set for the king's mother;
and she sat on his right hand. Then she said, I desire one small
petition of thee; I pray thee say me not nay. And the king said unto
her, Ask, on, my mother: for I will not say thee nay.'"

Yeobright had, in fact, found his vocation in the career of an itinerant
open-air preacher and lecturer on morally unimpeachable subjects; and
from this day he laboured incessantly in that office, speaking not only
in simple language on Rainbarrow and in the hamlets round, but in a more
cultivated strain elsewhere--from the steps and porticoes of town halls,
from market-crosses, from conduits, on esplanades and on wharves, from
the parapets of bridges, in barns and outhouses, and all other such
places in the neighbouring Wessex towns and villages. He left alone
creeds and systems of philosophy, finding enough and more than enough
to occupy his tongue in the opinions and actions common to all good men.
Some believed him, and some believed not; some said that his words were
commonplace, others complained of his want of theological doctrine;
while others again remarked that it was well enough for a man to take to
preaching who could not see to do anything else. But everywhere he was
kindly received, for the story of his life had become generally known.

</CHAPTER>

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

completion: After Wildeve's death, Thomasin receives a substantial inheritance, but she decides to move into Bloomsend. Clym is glad and confines his own living quarters to two rooms in the back. Clym is busy preparing to be a preacher. At times, spurred by memories, he takes long, lonely walks on the heath. Venn, now a prosperous dairy farmer, calls on them. On May Day, Venn finds and confiscates Thomasin's glove, but Thomasin does not participate in the festivities. Rachel, when confronted, confesses that she has taken, and lost, one of Thomasin's gloves. The next time she meets Venn, Thomasin demands the glove, which is promptly returned. After this chance meeting, Venn meets Thomasin often. Remembering that it is his mother's dearest wish to see them married to each other, Clym is about to ask Thomasin to marry him when she reveals that she wishes to marry Venn. He is at first inclined to disapprove, but later gives his consent. The day of the wedding comes, and there is a lot of good-natured humor among the heath people, as they are engaged in stuffing a mattress to be given as a present to Thomasin and Venn. Clym gives the bride away and then wanders off towards Mistover. Here he meets Charley and gives him a lock of Eustacia's hair as a remembrance. After the wedding party, the bride and groom leave for Venn's farm in Stintford, and all the wedding guests depart, leaving Clym and his memories alone at Bloomsend. The novel closes with the picture of Clym, now a preacher, standing atop Rainbarrow delivering the first of his "moral lectures.


prompt:
Chapter: The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning
his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders
and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he
had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over
his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in
the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even
his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent
and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down
his brush on the floor, said, "Bother!" and "O blow!" and also "Hang
spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to
put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and
he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the
gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer
to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and
scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and
scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself,
"Up we go! Up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the
sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great
meadow.

"This is fine!" he said to himself. "This is better than whitewashing!"
The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated
brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long
the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout.
Jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the
delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the
meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.

"Hold up!" said an elderly rabbit at the gap. "Sixpence for the
privilege of passing by the private road!" He was bowled over in an
instant by the impatient and contemptuous Mole, who trotted along the
side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly
from their holes to see what the row was about. "Onion-sauce!
Onion-sauce!" he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could
think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply. Then they all started
grumbling at each other. "How _stupid_ you are! Why didn't you tell
him--" "Well, why didn't _you_ say--" "You might have reminded him--"
and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too
late, as is always the case.

It all seemed too good to be true. Hither and thither through the meadows
he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding
everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting--everything
happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy
conscience pricking him and whispering "whitewash!" he somehow could only
feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy
citizens. After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much
to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly
along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his
life had he seen a river before--this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied
animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and
leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that
shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake
and a-shiver--glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl,
chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By
the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the
side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when
tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on
to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent
from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

As he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the
bank opposite, just above the water's edge, caught his eye, and
dreamily he fell to considering what a nice, snug dwelling-place it
would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside
residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust. As he
gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart
of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it
could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too
glittering and small for a glow-worm. Then, as he looked, it winked at
him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began
gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.

A brown little face, with whiskers.

A grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first
attracted his notice.

Small neat ears and thick silky hair.

It was the Water Rat!

Then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.

"Hullo, Mole!" said the Water Rat.

"Hullo, Rat!" said the Mole.

"Would you like to come over?" enquired the Rat presently.

"Oh, it's all very well to _talk_," said the Mole rather pettishly, he
being new to a river and riverside life and its ways.

The Rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on
it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the Mole had not
observed. It was painted blue outside and white within, and was just
the size for two animals; and the Mole's whole heart went out to it at
once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.

The Rat sculled smartly across and made fast. Then he held up his
fore-paw as the Mole stepped gingerly down. "Lean on that!" he said.
"Now then, step lively!" and the Mole to his surprise and rapture
found himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat.

"This has been a wonderful day!" said he, as the Rat shoved off and
took to the sculls again. "Do you know, I've never been in a boat
before in all my life."

[Illustration: _It was the Water Rat_]

"What?" cried the Rat, open-mouthed: "Never been in a--you never--well
I--what have you been doing, then?"

"Is it so nice as all that?" asked the Mole shyly, though he was quite
prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the
cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings,
and felt the boat sway lightly under him.

"Nice? It's the _only_ thing," said the Water Rat solemnly as he leant
forward for his stroke. "Believe me, my young friend, there is
_nothing_--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply
messing about in boats. Simply messing," he went on dreamily:
"messing--about--in--boats; messing--"

"Look ahead, Rat!" cried the Mole suddenly.

It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the
joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels
in the air.

"--about in boats--or _with_ boats," the Rat went on composedly,
picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. "In or out of 'em, it
doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of
it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at
your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you
never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do
anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always
something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much
better not. Look here! If you've really nothing else on hand this
morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long
day of it?"

The Mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with
a sigh of full contentment, and leant back blissfully into the soft
cushions. "_What_ a day I'm having!" he said. "Let us start at once!"

"Hold hard a minute, then!" said the Rat. He looped the painter
through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above,
and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat wicker
luncheon-basket.

"Shove that under your feet," he observed to the Mole, as he passed it
down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls
again.

"What's inside it?" asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

"There's cold chicken inside it," replied the Rat briefly:
"coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwiches
pottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater--"

"O stop, stop!" cried the Mole in ecstasies. "This is too much!"

"Do you really think so?" enquired the Rat seriously. "It's only what
I always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are
always telling me that I'm a mean beast and cut it _very_ fine!"

The Mole never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life he
was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the
scents and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water
and dreamed long waking dreams. The Water Rat, like the good little
fellow he was, sculled steadily on and forbore to disturb him.

"I like your clothes awfully, old chap," he remarked after some half
an hour or so had passed. "I'm going to get a black velvet smoking-suit
myself some day, as soon as I can afford it."

"I beg your pardon," said the Mole, pulling himself together with an
effort. "You must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me.
So--this--is--a--River!"

"_The_ River," corrected the Rat.

"And you really live by the river? What a jolly life!"

"By it and with it and on it and in it," said the Rat. "It's brother
and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and
(naturally) washing. It's my world, and I don't want any other. What
it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not
worth knowing. Lord! the times we've had together! Whether in winter
or summer, spring or autumn, it's always got its fun and its
excitements. When the floods are on in February, and my cellars and
basement are brimming with drink that's no good to me, and the brown
water runs by my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away
and shows patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes
and weed clog the channels, and I can potter about dry shod over most
of the bed of it and find fresh food to eat, and things careless
people have dropped out of boats!"

"But isn't it a bit dull at times?" the Mole ventured to ask. "Just
you and the river, and no one else to pass a word with?"

"No one else to--well, I mustn't be hard on you," said the Rat with
forbearance. "You're new to it, and of course you don't know. The bank
is so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether. O
no, it isn't what it used to be, at all. Otters, king-fishers,
dabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting
you to _do_ something--as if a fellow had no business of his own to
attend to!"

"What lies over _there_?" asked the Mole, waving a paw towards a
background of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one
side of the river.

"That? O, that's just the Wild Wood," said the Rat shortly. "We don't
go there very much, we river-bankers."

"Aren't they--aren't they very _nice_ people in there?" said the Mole
a trifle nervously.

"W-e-ll," replied the Rat, "let me see. The squirrels are all right.
_And_ the rabbits--some of 'em, but rabbits are a mixed lot. And then
there's Badger, of course. He lives right in the heart of it; wouldn't
live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. Dear old Badger!
Nobody interferes with _him_. They'd better not," he added
significantly.

"Why, who _should_ interfere with him?" asked the Mole.

"Well, of course--there--are others," explained the Rat in a hesitating
sort of way. "Weasels--and stoats--and foxes--and so on. They're all right
in a way--I'm very good friends with them--pass the time of day when we
meet, and all that--but they break out sometimes, there's no denying it,
and then--well, you can't really trust them, and that's the fact."

The Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell
on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the
subject.

"And beyond the Wild Wood again?" he asked; "where it's all blue and
dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn't, and
something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?"

"Beyond the Wild Wood comes the Wide World," said the Rat. "And that's
something that doesn't matter, either to you or me. I've never been
there, and I'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at
all. Don't ever refer to it again, please. Now then! Here's our
backwater at last, where we're going to lunch."

Leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first
sight like a little landlocked lake. Green turf sloped down to either
edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet
water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a
weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in
its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing
murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices
speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so very
beautiful that the Mole could only hold up both fore-paws and gasp: "O
my! O my! O my!"

The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the
still awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket.
The Mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself;
and the Rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full
length on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the
table-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by
one and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping: "O my! O
my!" at each fresh revelation. When all was ready, the Rat said, "Now,
pitch in, old fellow!" and the Mole was indeed very glad to obey, for
he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning,
as people _will_ do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had
been through a very great deal since that distant time which now
seemed so many days ago.

"What are you looking at?" said the Rat presently, when the edge of
their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the Mole's eyes were able to
wander off the table-cloth a little.

"I am looking," said the Mole, "at a streak of bubbles that I see
travelling along the surface of the water. That is a thing that
strikes me as funny."

"Bubbles? Oho!" said the Rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting
sort of way.

A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank,
and the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.

"Greedy beggars!" he observed, making for the provender. "Why didn't
you invite me, Ratty?"

"This was an impromptu affair," explained the Rat. "By the way--my
friend Mr. Mole."

"Proud, I'm sure," said the Otter, and the two animals were friends
forthwith.

"Such a rumpus everywhere!" continued the Otter. "All the world seems
out on the river to-day. I came up this backwater to try and get a
moment's peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!--At least--I beg
pardon--I don't exactly mean that, you know."

There was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last
year's leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high
shoulders behind it, peered forth on them.

"Come on, old Badger!" shouted the Rat.

The Badger trotted forward a pace or two, then grunted, "H'm!
Company," and turned his back and disappeared from view.

"That's _just_ the sort of fellow he is!" observed the disappointed
Rat. "Simply hates Society! Now we shan't see any more of him to-day.
Well, tell us, _who's_ out on the river?"

"Toad's out, for one," replied the Otter. "In his brand-new wager-boat;
new togs, new everything!"

The two animals looked at each other and laughed.

"Once, it was nothing but sailing," said the Rat. "Then he tired of
that and took to punting. Nothing would please him but to punt all day
and every day, and a nice mess he made of it. Last year it was
house-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his
house-boat, and pretend we liked it. He was going to spend the rest of
his life in a house-boat. It's all the same, whatever he takes up; he
gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh."

"Such a good fellow, too," remarked the Otter reflectively; "but no
stability--especially in a boat!"

From where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across
the island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed
into view, the rower--a short, stout figure--splashing badly and
rolling a good deal, but working his hardest. The Rat stood up and
hailed him, but Toad--for it was he--shook his head and settled
sternly to his work.

"He'll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that," said the
Rat, sitting down again.

"Of course he will," chuckled the Otter. "Did I ever tell you that
good story about Toad and the lock-keeper? It happened this way.
Toad...."

An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the
intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing
life. A swirl of water and a "cloop!" and the May-fly was visible no
more.

Neither was the Otter.

The Mole looked down. The voice was still in his ears, but the turf
whereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant. Not an Otter to be seen,
as far as the distant horizon.

But again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river.

The Rat hummed a tune, and the Mole recollected that animal-etiquette
forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one's
friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.

"Well, well," said the Rat, "I suppose we ought to be moving. I wonder
which of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?" He did not speak as
if he was frightfully eager for the treat.

"O, please let me," said the Mole. So, of course, the Rat let him.

Packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking the
basket. It never is. But the Mole was bent on enjoying everything,
and although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up
tightly he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the
job had been done again the Rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought
to have seen, and last of all, behold! the mustard pot, which he had
been sitting on without knowing it--still, somehow, the thing got
finished at last, without much loss of temper.

The afternoon sun was getting low as the Rat sculled gently homewards
in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not
paying much attention to Mole. But the Mole was very full of lunch,
and self-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat
(so he thought), and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently
he said, "Ratty! Please, _I_ want to row, now!"

The Rat shook his head with a smile. "Not yet, my young friend," he
said; "wait till you've had a few lessons. It's not so easy as it
looks."

The Mole was quiet for a minute or two. But he began to feel more and
more jealous of Rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his
pride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well. He
jumped up and seized the sculls so suddenly that the Rat, who was
gazing out over the water and saying more poetry-things to himself,
was taken by surprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in
the air for the second time, while the triumphant Mole took his place
and grabbed the sculls with entire confidence.

"Stop it, you _silly_ ass!" cried the Rat, from the bottom of the
boat. "You can't do it! You'll have us over!"

The Mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig
at the water. He missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above
his head, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate Rat.
Greatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next
moment--Sploosh!

Over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river.

O my, how cold the water was, and O, how _very_ wet it felt! How it
sang in his ears as he went down, down, down! How bright and welcome
the sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering! How
black was his despair when he felt himself sinking again! Then a firm
paw gripped him by the back of his neck. It was the Rat, and he was
evidently laughing--the Mole could _feel_ him laughing, right down his
arm and through his paw, and so into his--the Mole's--neck.

The Rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the Mole's arm; then
he did the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind,
propelled the helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him
down on the bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery.

When the Rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out
of him, he said, "Now then, old fellow! Trot up and down the
towing-path as hard as you can, till you're warm and dry again, while
I dive for the luncheon-basket."

So the dismal Mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till
he was fairly dry, while the Rat plunged into the water again,
recovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his
floating property to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully
for the luncheon-basket and struggled to land with it.

When all was ready for a start once more, the Mole, limp and dejected,
took his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said
in a low voice, broken with emotion, "Ratty, my generous friend! I am
very sorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct. My heart
quite fails me when I think how I might have lost that beautiful
luncheon-basket. Indeed, I have been a complete ass, and I know it.
Will you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as
before?"

"That's all right, bless you!" responded the Rat cheerily. "What's a
little wet to a Water Rat? I'm more in the water than out of it most
days. Don't you think any more about it; and look here! I really think
you had better come and stop with me for a little time. It's very
plain and rough, you know--not like Toad's house at all--but you
haven't seen that yet; still, I can make you comfortable. And I'll
teach you to row and to swim, and you'll soon be as handy on the water
as any of us."

The Mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could
find no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two
with the back of his paw. But the Rat kindly looked in another
direction, and presently the Mole's spirits revived again, and he was
even able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who
were sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance.

When they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and
planted the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a
dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till
supper-time. Very thrilling stories they were, too, to an earth-dwelling
animal like Mole. Stories about weirs, and sudden floods, and leaping
pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles--at least bottles were
certainly flung, and _from_ steamers, so presumably _by_ them; and
about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke to; and about
adventures down drains, and night-fishings with Otter, or excursions far
a-field with Badger. Supper was a most cheerful meal; but very shortly
afterwards a terribly sleepy Mole had to be escorted upstairs by his
considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon laid his head on
his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing that his new-found
friend, the River, was lapping the sill of his window.

This day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated
Mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer
moved onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy
of running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at
intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly
among them.

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

completion: "The River Bank" The novel opens during springtime, while Mole is conducting his annual spring cleaning around his underground burrow home. Suddenly, he is struck by a feeling of discontent, and immediately tunnels his way out of the earth and up into the middle of a field. Hearing the birds chirp and feeling the sunshine on his fur, he realizes that he has spent too much time underground, especially during this recent good weather. He decides to explore his surroundings, and soon arrives at a hedge. Several rabbits block the pathway, and demand he pay money in order to pass through to their private path. Mole, however, barrels through the rabbits with brute force, muttering to himself about the absurdity of their request. He keeps traveling farther and farther away from home, across meadows and fields, until he finally reaches a wide river. Mole has never seen a river before, and is awe-struck by its depth and beauty. Something on the opposite riverbank catches Mole's eye, and he discerns a small hole just above the waterline. He wonders about living in that hole, but then Water Rat pops out. Being a friendly animal, Rat brings his personal rowboat to Mole, and invites him for a picnic on the river. Mole is excited, having never been in a boat, and joins Rat down the stream to a small clearing. After Mole unpacks the basket, they discuss life on the river, which Rat loves above all else. Suddenly, Otter comes into the clearing, slightly upset that he had not been invited to the picnic. He settles down quickly, though, and he and Rat begin talking about Toad and Badger, two other animals in their circle. Mole listens to their information about the community with great interest. Once Otter leaves to chase a mayfly, Rat ends the picnic. Mole insists on packing the basket himself, but fails to do it correctly. After a few tries, he and Rat finally get in the boat and head back to Rat's home. Mole asks Rat if he can try steering the boat. Amused, Rat insists it is harder than it looks, and promises to later give Mole lessons. Mole is upset by Rat's refusal, and tries to prove his strength by pushing Rat out of the way so he can steer the boat himself. Rat was correct about the difficulty, though, and the boat flips over. Mole drags himself to land, embarrassed of how rudely he acted towards his new friend. However, after diving to fetch all his supplies, Rat forgives the younger animal, and invites Mole to live with him as long as he likes.