prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
3--The First Act in a Timeworn Drama

The afternoon was fine, and Yeobright walked on the heath for an hour
with his mother. When they reached the lofty ridge which divided the
valley of Blooms-End from the adjoining valley they stood still and
looked round. The Quiet Woman Inn was visible on the low margin of the
heath in one direction, and afar on the other hand rose Mistover Knap.

"You mean to call on Thomasin?" he inquired.

"Yes. But you need not come this time," said his mother.

"In that case I'll branch off here, Mother. I am going to Mistover."

Mrs. Yeobright turned to him inquiringly.

"I am going to help them get the bucket out of the captain's well," he
continued. "As it is so very deep I may be useful. And I should like
to see this Miss Vye--not so much for her good looks as for another
reason."

"Must you go?" his mother asked.

"I thought to."

And they parted. "There is no help for it," murmured Clym's mother
gloomily as he withdrew. "They are sure to see each other. I wish Sam
would carry his news to other houses than mine."

Clym's retreating figure got smaller and smaller as it rose and
fell over the hillocks on his way. "He is tender-hearted," said Mrs.
Yeobright to herself while she watched him; "otherwise it would matter
little. How he's going on!"

He was, indeed, walking with a will over the furze, as straight as a
line, as if his life depended upon it. His mother drew a long breath,
and, abandoning the visit to Thomasin, turned back. The evening films
began to make nebulous pictures of the valleys, but the high lands still
were raked by the declining rays of the winter sun, which glanced on
Clym as he walked forward, eyed by every rabbit and field-fare around, a
long shadow advancing in front of him.

On drawing near to the furze-covered bank and ditch which fortified
the captain's dwelling he could hear voices within, signifying that
operations had been already begun. At the side-entrance gate he stopped
and looked over.

Half a dozen able-bodied men were standing in a line from the
well-mouth, holding a rope which passed over the well-roller into the
depths below. Fairway, with a piece of smaller rope round his body, made
fast to one of the standards, to guard against accidents, was leaning
over the opening, his right hand clasping the vertical rope that
descended into the well.

"Now, silence, folks," said Fairway.

The talking ceased, and Fairway gave a circular motion to the rope,
as if he were stirring batter. At the end of a minute a dull splashing
reverberated from the bottom of the well; the helical twist he had
imparted to the rope had reached the grapnel below.

"Haul!" said Fairway; and the men who held the rope began to gather it
over the wheel.

"I think we've got sommat," said one of the haulers-in.

"Then pull steady," said Fairway.

They gathered up more and more, till a regular dripping into the well
could be heard below. It grew smarter with the increasing height of the
bucket, and presently a hundred and fifty feet of rope had been pulled
in.

Fairway then lit a lantern, tied it to another cord, and began lowering
it into the well beside the first: Clym came forward and looked down.
Strange humid leaves, which knew nothing of the seasons of the year,
and quaint-natured mosses were revealed on the wellside as the lantern
descended; till its rays fell upon a confused mass of rope and bucket
dangling in the dank, dark air.

"We've only got en by the edge of the hoop--steady, for God's sake!"
said Fairway.

They pulled with the greatest gentleness, till the wet bucket appeared
about two yards below them, like a dead friend come to earth again.
Three or four hands were stretched out, then jerk went the rope, whizz
went the wheel, the two foremost haulers fell backward, the beating of
a falling body was heard, receding down the sides of the well, and a
thunderous uproar arose at the bottom. The bucket was gone again.

"Damn the bucket!" said Fairway.

"Lower again," said Sam.

"I'm as stiff as a ram's horn stooping so long," said Fairway, standing
up and stretching himself till his joints creaked.

"Rest a few minutes, Timothy," said Yeobright. "I'll take your place."

The grapnel was again lowered. Its smart impact upon the distant water
reached their ears like a kiss, whereupon Yeobright knelt down, and
leaning over the well began dragging the grapnel round and round as
Fairway had done.

"Tie a rope round him--it is dangerous!" cried a soft and anxious voice
somewhere above them.

Everybody turned. The speaker was a woman, gazing down upon the group
from an upper window, whose panes blazed in the ruddy glare from the
west. Her lips were parted and she appeared for the moment to forget
where she was.

The rope was accordingly tied round his waist, and the work proceeded.
At the next haul the weight was not heavy, and it was discovered that
they had only secured a coil of the rope detached from the bucket. The
tangled mass was thrown into the background. Humphrey took Yeobright's
place, and the grapnel was lowered again.

Yeobright retired to the heap of recovered rope in a meditative mood. Of
the identity between the lady's voice and that of the melancholy
mummer he had not a moment's doubt. "How thoughtful of her!" he said to
himself.

Eustacia, who had reddened when she perceived the effect of her
exclamation upon the group below, was no longer to be seen at the
window, though Yeobright scanned it wistfully. While he stood there the
men at the well succeeded in getting up the bucket without a mishap. One
of them went to inquire for the captain, to learn what orders he wished
to give for mending the well-tackle. The captain proved to be away from
home, and Eustacia appeared at the door and came out. She had lapsed
into an easy and dignified calm, far removed from the intensity of life
in her words of solicitude for Clym's safety.

"Will it be possible to draw water here tonight?" she inquired.

"No, miss; the bottom of the bucket is clean knocked out. And as we can
do no more now we'll leave off, and come again tomorrow morning."

"No water," she murmured, turning away.

"I can send you up some from Blooms-End," said Clym, coming forward and
raising his hat as the men retired.

Yeobright and Eustacia looked at each other for one instant, as if each
had in mind those few moments during which a certain moonlight scene was
common to both. With the glance the calm fixity of her features sublimed
itself to an expression of refinement and warmth; it was like garish
noon rising to the dignity of sunset in a couple of seconds.

"Thank you; it will hardly be necessary," she replied.

"But if you have no water?"

"Well, it is what I call no water," she said, blushing, and lifting
her long-lashed eyelids as if to lift them were a work requiring
consideration. "But my grandfather calls it water enough. I'll show you
what I mean."

She moved away a few yards, and Clym followed. When she reached the
corner of the enclosure, where the steps were formed for mounting the
boundary bank, she sprang up with a lightness which seemed strange after
her listless movement towards the well. It incidentally showed that her
apparent languor did not arise from lack of force.

Clym ascended behind her, and noticed a circular burnt patch at the top
of the bank. "Ashes?" he said.

"Yes," said Eustacia. "We had a little bonfire here last Fifth of
November, and those are the marks of it."

On that spot had stood the fire she had kindled to attract Wildeve.

"That's the only kind of water we have," she continued, tossing a stone
into the pool, which lay on the outside of the bank like the white of
an eye without its pupil. The stone fell with a flounce, but no Wildeve
appeared on the other side, as on a previous occasion there. "My
grandfather says he lived for more than twenty years at sea on water
twice as bad as that," she went on, "and considers it quite good enough
for us here on an emergency."

"Well, as a matter of fact there are no impurities in the water of these
pools at this time of the year. It has only just rained into them."

She shook her head. "I am managing to exist in a wilderness, but I
cannot drink from a pond," she said.

Clym looked towards the well, which was now deserted, the men having
gone home. "It is a long way to send for spring-water," he said, after a
silence. "But since you don't like this in the pond, I'll try to get you
some myself." He went back to the well. "Yes, I think I could do it by
tying on this pail."

"But, since I would not trouble the men to get it, I cannot in
conscience let you."

"I don't mind the trouble at all."

He made fast the pail to the long coil of rope, put it over the wheel,
and allowed it to descend by letting the rope slip through his hands.
Before it had gone far, however, he checked it.

"I must make fast the end first, or we may lose the whole," he said to
Eustacia, who had drawn near. "Could you hold this a moment, while I do
it--or shall I call your servant?"

"I can hold it," said Eustacia; and he placed the rope in her hands,
going then to search for the end.

"I suppose I may let it slip down?" she inquired.

"I would advise you not to let it go far," said Clym. "It will get much
heavier, you will find."

However, Eustacia had begun to pay out. While he was tying she cried, "I
cannot stop it!"

Clym ran to her side, and found he could only check the rope by twisting
the loose part round the upright post, when it stopped with a jerk. "Has
it hurt you?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Very much?"

"No; I think not." She opened her hands. One of them was bleeding; the
rope had dragged off the skin. Eustacia wrapped it in her handkerchief.

"You should have let go," said Yeobright. "Why didn't you?"

"You said I was to hold on.... This is the second time I have been
wounded today."

"Ah, yes; I have heard of it. I blush for my native Egdon. Was it a
serious injury you received in church, Miss Vye?"

There was such an abundance of sympathy in Clym's tone that Eustacia
slowly drew up her sleeve and disclosed her round white arm. A bright
red spot appeared on its smooth surface, like a ruby on Parian marble.

"There it is," she said, putting her finger against the spot.

"It was dastardly of the woman," said Clym. "Will not Captain Vye get
her punished?"

"He is gone from home on that very business. I did not know that I had
such a magic reputation."

"And you fainted?" said Clym, looking at the scarlet little puncture as
if he would like to kiss it and make it well.

"Yes, it frightened me. I had not been to church for a long time. And
now I shall not go again for ever so long--perhaps never. I cannot face
their eyes after this. Don't you think it dreadfully humiliating? I
wished I was dead for hours after, but I don't mind now."

"I have come to clean away these cobwebs," said Yeobright. "Would you
like to help me--by high-class teaching? We might benefit them much."

"I don't quite feel anxious to. I have not much love for my
fellow-creatures. Sometimes I quite hate them."

"Still I think that if you were to hear my scheme you might take an
interest in it. There is no use in hating people--if you hate anything,
you should hate what produced them."

"Do you mean Nature? I hate her already. But I shall be glad to hear
your scheme at any time."

The situation had now worked itself out, and the next natural thing was
for them to part. Clym knew this well enough, and Eustacia made a move
of conclusion; yet he looked at her as if he had one word more to say.
Perhaps if he had not lived in Paris it would never have been uttered.

"We have met before," he said, regarding her with rather more interest
than was necessary.

"I do not own it," said Eustacia, with a repressed, still look.

"But I may think what I like."

"Yes."

"You are lonely here."

"I cannot endure the heath, except in its purple season. The heath is a
cruel taskmaster to me."

"Can you say so?" he asked. "To my mind it is most exhilarating, and
strengthening, and soothing. I would rather live on these hills than
anywhere else in the world."

"It is well enough for artists; but I never would learn to draw."

"And there is a very curious druidical stone just out there." He threw a
pebble in the direction signified. "Do you often go to see it?"

"I was not even aware there existed any such curious druidical stone. I
am aware that there are boulevards in Paris."

Yeobright looked thoughtfully on the ground. "That means much," he said.

"It does indeed," said Eustacia.

"I remember when I had the same longing for town bustle. Five years of a
great city would be a perfect cure for that."

"Heaven send me such a cure! Now, Mr. Yeobright, I will go indoors and
plaster my wounded hand."

They separated, and Eustacia vanished in the increasing shade. She
seemed full of many things. Her past was a blank, her life had begun.
The effect upon Clym of this meeting he did not fully discover till some
time after. During his walk home his most intelligible sensation was
that his scheme had somehow become glorified. A beautiful woman had been
intertwined with it.

On reaching the house he went up to the room which was to be made his
study, and occupied himself during the evening in unpacking his books
from the boxes and arranging them on shelves. From another box he drew
a lamp and a can of oil. He trimmed the lamp, arranged his table, and
said, "Now, I am ready to begin."

He rose early the next morning, read two hours before breakfast by the
light of his lamp--read all the morning, all the afternoon. Just when
the sun was going down his eyes felt weary, and he leant back in his
chair.

His room overlooked the front of the premises and the valley of the
heath beyond. The lowest beams of the winter sun threw the shadow of the
house over the palings, across the grass margin of the heath, and far
up the vale, where the chimney outlines and those of the surrounding
tree-tops stretched forth in long dark prongs. Having been seated at
work all day, he decided to take a turn upon the hills before it got
dark; and, going out forthwith, he struck across the heath towards
Mistover.

It was an hour and a half later when he again appeared at the garden
gate. The shutters of the house were closed, and Christian Cantle, who
had been wheeling manure about the garden all day, had gone home. On
entering he found that his mother, after waiting a long time for him,
had finished her meal.

"Where have you been, Clym?" she immediately said. "Why didn't you tell
me that you were going away at this time?"

"I have been on the heath."

"You'll meet Eustacia Vye if you go up there."

Clym paused a minute. "Yes, I met her this evening," he said, as though
it were spoken under the sheer necessity of preserving honesty.

"I wondered if you had."

"It was no appointment."

"No; such meetings never are."

"But you are not angry, Mother?"

"I can hardly say that I am not. Angry? No. But when I consider the
usual nature of the drag which causes men of promise to disappoint the
world I feel uneasy."

"You deserve credit for the feeling, Mother. But I can assure you that
you need not be disturbed by it on my account."

"When I think of you and your new crotchets," said Mrs. Yeobright,
with some emphasis, "I naturally don't feel so comfortable as I did a
twelvemonth ago. It is incredible to me that a man accustomed to the
attractive women of Paris and elsewhere should be so easily worked upon
by a girl in a heath. You could just as well have walked another way."

"I had been studying all day."

"Well, yes," she added more hopefully, "I have been thinking that you
might get on as a schoolmaster, and rise that way, since you really are
determined to hate the course you were pursuing."

Yeobright was unwilling to disturb this idea, though his scheme was far
enough removed from one wherein the education of youth should be made
a mere channel of social ascent. He had no desires of that sort. He had
reached the stage in a young man's life when the grimness of the general
human situation first becomes clear; and the realization of this causes
ambition to halt awhile. In France it is not uncustomary to commit
suicide at this stage; in England we do much better, or much worse, as
the case may be.

The love between the young man and his mother was strangely invisible
now. Of love it may be said, the less earthly the less demonstrative. In
its absolutely indestructible form it reaches a profundity in which all
exhibition of itself is painful. It was so with these. Had conversations
between them been overheard, people would have said, "How cold they are
to each other!"

His theory and his wishes about devoting his future to teaching had made
an impression on Mrs. Yeobright. Indeed, how could it be otherwise
when he was a part of her--when their discourses were as if carried on
between the right and the left hands of the same body? He had despaired
of reaching her by argument; and it was almost as a discovery to him
that he could reach her by a magnetism which was as superior to words as
words are to yells.

Strangely enough he began to feel now that it would not be so hard
to persuade her who was his best friend that comparative poverty was
essentially the higher course for him, as to reconcile to his feelings
the act of persuading her. From every provident point of view his mother
was so undoubtedly right, that he was not without a sickness of heart in
finding he could shake her.

She had a singular insight into life, considering that she had never
mixed with it. There are instances of persons who, without clear ideas
of the things they criticize have yet had clear ideas of the relations
of those things. Blacklock, a poet blind from his birth, could describe
visual objects with accuracy; Professor Sanderson, who was also blind,
gave excellent lectures on colour, and taught others the theory of ideas
which they had and he had not. In the social sphere these gifted ones
are mostly women; they can watch a world which they never saw, and
estimate forces of which they have only heard. We call it intuition.

What was the great world to Mrs. Yeobright? A multitude whose tendencies
could be perceived, though not its essences. Communities were seen by
her as from a distance; she saw them as we see the throngs which cover
the canvases of Sallaert, Van Alsloot, and others of that school--vast
masses of beings, jostling, zigzagging, and processioning in definite
directions, but whose features are indistinguishable by the very
comprehensiveness of the view.

One could see that, as far as it had gone, her life was very complete on
its reflective side. The philosophy of her nature, and its limitation by
circumstances, was almost written in her movements. They had a majestic
foundation, though they were far from being majestic; and they had a
ground-work of assurance, but they were not assured. As her once elastic
walk had become deadened by time, so had her natural pride of life been
hindered in its blooming by her necessities.

The next slight touch in the shaping of Clym's destiny occurred a few
days after. A barrow was opened on the heath, and Yeobright attended the
operation, remaining away from his study during several hours. In the
afternoon Christian returned from a journey in the same direction, and
Mrs. Yeobright questioned him.

"They have dug a hole, and they have found things like flowerpots upside
down, Mis'ess Yeobright; and inside these be real charnel bones. They
have carried 'em off to men's houses; but I shouldn't like to sleep
where they will bide. Dead folks have been known to come and claim their
own. Mr. Yeobright had got one pot of the bones, and was going to bring
'em home--real skellington bones--but 'twas ordered otherwise. You'll be
relieved to hear that he gave away his pot and all, on second thoughts;
and a blessed thing for ye, Mis'ess Yeobright, considering the wind o'
nights."

"Gave it away?"

"Yes. To Miss Vye. She has a cannibal taste for such churchyard
furniture seemingly."

"Miss Vye was there too?"

"Ay, 'a b'lieve she was."

When Clym came home, which was shortly after, his mother said, in a
curious tone, "The urn you had meant for me you gave away."

Yeobright made no reply; the current of her feeling was too pronounced
to admit it.

The early weeks of the year passed on. Yeobright certainly studied at
home, but he also walked much abroad, and the direction of his walk was
always towards some point of a line between Mistover and Rainbarrow.

The month of March arrived, and the heath showed its first signs of
awakening from winter trance. The awakening was almost feline in its
stealthiness. The pool outside the bank by Eustacia's dwelling, which
seemed as dead and desolate as ever to an observer who moved and made
noises in his observation, would gradually disclose a state of great
animation when silently watched awhile. A timid animal world had come to
life for the season. Little tadpoles and efts began to bubble up through
the water, and to race along beneath it; toads made noises like very
young ducks, and advanced to the margin in twos and threes; overhead,
bumblebees flew hither and thither in the thickening light, their drone
coming and going like the sound of a gong.

On an evening such as this Yeobright descended into the Blooms-End
valley from beside that very pool, where he had been standing with
another person quite silently and quite long enough to hear all this
puny stir of resurrection in nature; yet he had not heard it. His walk
was rapid as he came down, and he went with a springy trend. Before
entering upon his mother's premises he stopped and breathed. The light
which shone forth on him from the window revealed that his face was
flushed and his eye bright. What it did not show was something which
lingered upon his lips like a seal set there. The abiding presence of
this impress was so real that he hardly dared to enter the house, for it
seemed as if his mother might say, "What red spot is that glowing upon
your mouth so vividly?"

But he entered soon after. The tea was ready, and he sat down opposite
his mother. She did not speak many words; and as for him, something
had been just done and some words had been just said on the hill which
prevented him from beginning a desultory chat. His mother's taciturnity
was not without ominousness, but he appeared not to care. He knew why
she said so little, but he could not remove the cause of her bearing
towards him. These half-silent sittings were far from uncommon with them
now. At last Yeobright made a beginning of what was intended to strike
at the whole root of the matter.

"Five days have we sat like this at meals with scarcely a word. What's
the use of it, Mother?"

"None," said she, in a heart-swollen tone. "But there is only too good a
reason."

"Not when you know all. I have been wanting to speak about this, and I
am glad the subject is begun. The reason, of course, is Eustacia Vye.
Well, I confess I have seen her lately, and have seen her a good many
times."

"Yes, yes; and I know what that amounts to. It troubles me, Clym. You
are wasting your life here; and it is solely on account of her. If
it had not been for that woman you would never have entertained this
teaching scheme at all."

Clym looked hard at his mother. "You know that is not it," he said.

"Well, I know you had decided to attempt it before you saw her; but
that would have ended in intentions. It was very well to talk of, but
ridiculous to put in practice. I fully expected that in the course of a
month or two you would have seen the folly of such self-sacrifice, and
would have been by this time back again to Paris in some business or
other. I can understand objections to the diamond trade--I really was
thinking that it might be inadequate to the life of a man like you even
though it might have made you a millionaire. But now I see how mistaken
you are about this girl I doubt if you could be correct about other
things."

"How am I mistaken in her?"

"She is lazy and dissatisfied. But that is not all of it. Supposing her
to be as good a woman as any you can find, which she certainly is not,
why do you wish to connect yourself with anybody at present?"

"Well, there are practical reasons," Clym began, and then almost broke
off under an overpowering sense of the weight of argument which could
be brought against his statement. "If I take a school an educated woman
would be invaluable as a help to me."

"What! you really mean to marry her?"

"It would be premature to state that plainly. But consider what obvious
advantages there would be in doing it. She----"

"Don't suppose she has any money. She hasn't a farthing."

"She is excellently educated, and would make a good matron in a
boarding-school. I candidly own that I have modified my views a little,
in deference to you; and it should satisfy you. I no longer adhere to
my intention of giving with my own mouth rudimentary education to the
lowest class. I can do better. I can establish a good private school
for farmers' sons, and without stopping the school I can manage to
pass examinations. By this means, and by the assistance of a wife like
her----"

"Oh, Clym!"

"I shall ultimately, I hope, be at the head of one of the best schools
in the county."

Yeobright had enunciated the word "her" with a fervour which, in
conversation with a mother, was absurdly indiscreet. Hardly a maternal
heart within the four seas could in such circumstances, have helped
being irritated at that ill-timed betrayal of feeling for a new woman.

"You are blinded, Clym," she said warmly. "It was a bad day for you when
you first set eyes on her. And your scheme is merely a castle in the
air built on purpose to justify this folly which has seized you, and to
salve your conscience on the irrational situation you are in."

"Mother, that's not true," he firmly answered.

"Can you maintain that I sit and tell untruths, when all I wish to do
is to save you from sorrow? For shame, Clym! But it is all through that
woman--a hussy!"

Clym reddened like fire and rose. He placed his hand upon his mother's
shoulder and said, in a tone which hung strangely between entreaty and
command, "I won't hear it. I may be led to answer you in a way which we
shall both regret."

His mother parted her lips to begin some other vehement truth, but on
looking at him she saw that in his face which led her to leave the
words unsaid. Yeobright walked once or twice across the room, and then
suddenly went out of the house. It was eleven o'clock when he came in,
though he had not been further than the precincts of the garden. His
mother was gone to bed. A light was left burning on the table, and
supper was spread. Without stopping for any food he secured the doors
and went upstairs.

</CHAPTER>

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

completion: Mrs. Yeobright is upset that Clym is showing an interest in Eustacia. Clym says, whatever, and leaves anyway. The local men try to get some rope around the bucket and drag it back out, but they keep having trouble since the bucket is water-logged and heavy now. Clym offers to take Timothy Fairway's place and to be lowered down some into the well to get the bucket. Eustacia pipes up from the house and says to tie a rope around Clym since he might fall in the well. But it's getting late and the men say they'll have to come back tomorrow. Eustacia is bummed that she doesn't have water. Clym offers to send her some water, but Eustacia says it's cool since she technically has pond water, even though it's gross. The two walk over to the pond and Clym notices the ashes from the November bonfire. Clym gallantly volunteers to try again for the bucket and Eustacia helps him. But Eustacia just ends up with rope burn. Clym looks her over and also checks out her stab wound, courtesy of crazy Susan - what a day for Eustacia. The two talk about Clym's school plans and Eustacia shows some interest. Clym learns that Eustacia isn't happy in Egdon and longs for city life. The two part and are smitten with each other. The next day Clym studies hard and then goes for a walk, where he meets Eustacia. Upon returning home, his mom grills him. Things get steadily more awkward between mother and son. A few days later, Christian swings by with some gossip. He tells Mrs. Yeobright that some people dug up some ancient urns on the heath. Clym was going to bring one home but gave it to Eustacia instead. Mrs. Yeobright is peeved. Spring arrives and, with it, nature descriptions. Clym keeps wandering around and keeping weird hours. The Yeobrights finally have a throw-down argument, which has been building for weeks. They fight over Eustacia. Mrs. Yeobright calls her a hussy, while Clym defends his girlfriend. Finally Clym storms out and stays out very late.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
4--An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness

The next day was gloomy enough at Blooms-End. Yeobright remained in
his study, sitting over the open books; but the work of those hours was
miserably scant. Determined that there should be nothing in his conduct
towards his mother resembling sullenness, he had occasionally spoken to
her on passing matters, and would take no notice of the brevity of her
replies. With the same resolve to keep up a show of conversation he
said, about seven o'clock in the evening, "There's an eclipse of the
moon tonight. I am going out to see it." And, putting on his overcoat,
he left her.

The low moon was not as yet visible from the front of the house, and
Yeobright climbed out of the valley until he stood in the full flood
of her light. But even now he walked on, and his steps were in the
direction of Rainbarrow.

In half an hour he stood at the top. The sky was clear from verge to
verge, and the moon flung her rays over the whole heath, but without
sensibly lighting it, except where paths and water-courses had laid bare
the white flints and glistening quartz sand, which made streaks upon the
general shade. After standing awhile he stooped and felt the heather. It
was dry, and he flung himself down upon the barrow, his face towards the
moon, which depicted a small image of herself in each of his eyes.

He had often come up here without stating his purpose to his mother;
but this was the first time that he had been ostensibly frank as to
his purpose while really concealing it. It was a moral situation which,
three months earlier, he could hardly have credited of himself. In
returning to labour in this sequestered spot he had anticipated an
escape from the chafing of social necessities; yet behold they were
here also. More than ever he longed to be in some world where personal
ambition was not the only recognized form of progress--such, perhaps, as
might have been the case at some time or other in the silvery globe then
shining upon him. His eye travelled over the length and breadth of that
distant country--over the Bay of Rainbows, the sombre Sea of Crises,
the Ocean of Storms, the Lake of Dreams, the vast Walled Plains, and
the wondrous Ring Mountains--till he almost felt himself to be voyaging
bodily through its wild scenes, standing on its hollow hills, traversing
its deserts, descending its vales and old sea bottoms, or mounting to
the edges of its craters.

While he watched the far-removed landscape a tawny stain grew into being
on the lower verge--the eclipse had begun. This marked a preconcerted
moment--for the remote celestial phenomenon had been pressed into
sublunary service as a lover's signal. Yeobright's mind flew back to
earth at the sight; he arose, shook himself and listened. Minute after
minute passed by, perhaps ten minutes passed, and the shadow on the moon
perceptibly widened. He heard a rustling on his left hand, a cloaked
figure with an upturned face appeared at the base of the Barrow, and
Clym descended. In a moment the figure was in his arms, and his lips
upon hers.

"My Eustacia!"

"Clym, dearest!"

Such a situation had less than three months brought forth.

They remained long without a single utterance, for no language could
reach the level of their condition--words were as the rusty implements
of a by-gone barbarous epoch, and only to be occasionally tolerated.

"I began to wonder why you did not come," said Yeobright, when she had
withdrawn a little from his embrace.

"You said ten minutes after the first mark of shade on the edge of the
moon, and that's what it is now."

"Well, let us only think that here we are."

Then, holding each other's hand, they were again silent, and the shadow
on the moon's disc grew a little larger.

"Has it seemed long since you last saw me?" she asked.

"It has seemed sad."

"And not long? That's because you occupy yourself, and so blind yourself
to my absence. To me, who can do nothing, it has been like living under
stagnant water."

"I would rather bear tediousness, dear, than have time made short by
such means as have shortened mine."

"In what way is that? You have been thinking you wished you did not love
me."

"How can a man wish that, and yet love on? No, Eustacia."

"Men can, women cannot."

"Well, whatever I may have thought, one thing is certain--I do love
you--past all compass and description. I love you to oppressiveness--I,
who have never before felt more than a pleasant passing fancy for any
woman I have ever seen. Let me look right into your moonlit face and
dwell on every line and curve in it! Only a few hairbreadths make the
difference between this face and faces I have seen many times before I
knew you; yet what a difference--the difference between everything and
nothing at all. One touch on that mouth again! there, and there, and
there. Your eyes seem heavy, Eustacia."

"No, it is my general way of looking. I think it arises from my feeling
sometimes an agonizing pity for myself that I ever was born."

"You don't feel it now?"

"No. Yet I know that we shall not love like this always. Nothing can
ensure the continuance of love. It will evaporate like a spirit, and so
I feel full of fears."

"You need not."

"Ah, you don't know. You have seen more than I, and have been into
cities and among people that I have only heard of, and have lived more
years than I; but yet I am older at this than you. I loved another man
once, and now I love you."

"In God's mercy don't talk so, Eustacia!"

"But I do not think I shall be the one who wearies first. It will, I
fear, end in this way: your mother will find out that you meet me, and
she will influence you against me!"

"That can never be. She knows of these meetings already."

"And she speaks against me?"

"I will not say."

"There, go away! Obey her. I shall ruin you. It is foolish of you
to meet me like this. Kiss me, and go away forever. Forever--do you
hear?--forever!"

"Not I."

"It is your only chance. Many a man's love has been a curse to him."

"You are desperate, full of fancies, and wilful; and you misunderstand.
I have an additional reason for seeing you tonight besides love of you.
For though, unlike you, I feel our affection may be eternal. I feel with
you in this, that our present mode of existence cannot last."

"Oh! 'tis your mother. Yes, that's it! I knew it."

"Never mind what it is. Believe this, I cannot let myself lose you. I
must have you always with me. This very evening I do not like to let
you go. There is only one cure for this anxiety, dearest--you must be my
wife."

She started--then endeavoured to say calmly, "Cynics say that cures the
anxiety by curing the love."

"But you must answer me. Shall I claim you some day--I don't mean at
once?"

"I must think," Eustacia murmured. "At present speak of Paris to me. Is
there any place like it on earth?"

"It is very beautiful. But will you be mine?"

"I will be nobody else's in the world--does that satisfy you?"

"Yes, for the present."

"Now tell me of the Tuileries, and the Louvre," she continued evasively.

"I hate talking of Paris! Well, I remember one sunny room in the
Louvre which would make a fitting place for you to live in--the Galerie
d'Apollon. Its windows are mainly east; and in the early morning,
when the sun is bright, the whole apartment is in a perfect blaze of
splendour. The rays bristle and dart from the encrustations of gilding
to the magnificent inlaid coffers, from the coffers to the gold and
silver plate, from the plate to the jewels and precious stones, from
these to the enamels, till there is a perfect network of light which
quite dazzles the eye. But now, about our marriage----"

"And Versailles--the King's Gallery is some such gorgeous room, is it
not?"

"Yes. But what's the use of talking of gorgeous rooms? By the way, the
Little Trianon would suit us beautifully to live in, and you might
walk in the gardens in the moonlight and think you were in some English
shrubbery; It is laid out in English fashion."

"I should hate to think that!"

"Then you could keep to the lawn in front of the Grand Palace. All about
there you would doubtless feel in a world of historical romance."

He went on, since it was all new to her, and described Fontainebleau,
St. Cloud, the Bois, and many other familiar haunts of the Parisians;
till she said--

"When used you to go to these places?"

"On Sundays."

"Ah, yes. I dislike English Sundays. How I should chime in with their
manners over there! Dear Clym, you'll go back again?"

Clym shook his head, and looked at the eclipse.

"If you'll go back again I'll--be something," she said tenderly, putting
her head near his breast. "If you'll agree I'll give my promise, without
making you wait a minute longer."

"How extraordinary that you and my mother should be of one mind about
this!" said Yeobright. "I have vowed not to go back, Eustacia. It is not
the place I dislike; it is the occupation."

"But you can go in some other capacity."

"No. Besides, it would interfere with my scheme. Don't press that,
Eustacia. Will you marry me?"

"I cannot tell."

"Now--never mind Paris; it is no better than other spots. Promise,
sweet!"

"You will never adhere to your education plan, I am quite sure; and then
it will be all right for me; and so I promise to be yours for ever and
ever."

Clym brought her face towards his by a gentle pressure of the hand, and
kissed her.

"Ah! but you don't know what you have got in me," she said. "Sometimes I
think there is not that in Eustacia Vye which will make a good
homespun wife. Well, let it go--see how our time is slipping, slipping,
slipping!" She pointed towards the half-eclipsed moon.

"You are too mournful."

"No. Only I dread to think of anything beyond the present. What is, we
know. We are together now, and it is unknown how long we shall be so;
the unknown always fills my mind with terrible possibilities, even
when I may reasonably expect it to be cheerful.... Clym, the eclipsed
moonlight shines upon your face with a strange foreign colour, and shows
its shape as if it were cut out in gold. That means that you should be
doing better things than this."

"You are ambitious, Eustacia--no, not exactly ambitious, luxurious. I
ought to be of the same vein, to make you happy, I suppose. And yet, far
from that, I could live and die in a hermitage here, with proper work to
do."

There was that in his tone which implied distrust of his position as
a solicitous lover, a doubt if he were acting fairly towards one whose
tastes touched his own only at rare and infrequent points. She saw his
meaning, and whispered, in a low, full accent of eager assurance "Don't
mistake me, Clym--though I should like Paris, I love you for yourself
alone. To be your wife and live in Paris would be heaven to me; but I
would rather live with you in a hermitage here than not be yours at all.
It is gain to me either way, and very great gain. There's my too candid
confession."

"Spoken like a woman. And now I must soon leave you. I'll walk with you
towards your house."

"But must you go home yet?" she asked. "Yes, the sand has nearly slipped
away, I see, and the eclipse is creeping on more and more. Don't go yet!
Stop till the hour has run itself out; then I will not press you any
more. You will go home and sleep well; I keep sighing in my sleep! Do
you ever dream of me?"

"I cannot recollect a clear dream of you."

"I see your face in every scene of my dreams, and hear your voice in
every sound. I wish I did not. It is too much what I feel. They say
such love never lasts. But it must! And yet once, I remember, I saw an
officer of the Hussars ride down the street at Budmouth, and though he
was a total stranger and never spoke to me, I loved him till I thought
I should really die of love--but I didn't die, and at last I left off
caring for him. How terrible it would be if a time should come when I
could not love you, my Clym!"

"Please don't say such reckless things. When we see such a time at hand
we will say, 'I have outlived my faith and purpose,' and die. There, the
hour has expired--now let us walk on."

Hand in hand they went along the path towards Mistover. When they were
near the house he said, "It is too late for me to see your grandfather
tonight. Do you think he will object to it?"

"I will speak to him. I am so accustomed to be my own mistress that it
did not occur to me that we should have to ask him."

Then they lingeringly separated, and Clym descended towards Blooms-End.

And as he walked further and further from the charmed atmosphere of his
Olympian girl his face grew sad with a new sort of sadness. A perception
of the dilemma in which his love had placed him came back in full force.
In spite of Eustacia's apparent willingness to wait through the period
of an unpromising engagement, till he should be established in his new
pursuit, he could not but perceive at moments that she loved him rather
as a visitant from a gay world to which she rightly belonged than as
a man with a purpose opposed to that recent past of his which so
interested her. It meant that, though she made no conditions as to his
return to the French capital, this was what she secretly longed for in
the event of marriage; and it robbed him of many an otherwise pleasant
hour. Along with that came the widening breach between himself and his
mother. Whenever any little occurrence had brought into more prominence
than usual the disappointment that he was causing her it had sent him on
lone and moody walks; or he was kept awake a great part of the night
by the turmoil of spirit which such a recognition created. If Mrs.
Yeobright could only have been led to see what a sound and worthy
purpose this purpose of his was and how little it was being affected by
his devotions to Eustacia, how differently would she regard him!

Thus as his sight grew accustomed to the first blinding halo kindled
about him by love and beauty, Yeobright began to perceive what a
strait he was in. Sometimes he wished that he had never known Eustacia,
immediately to retract the wish as brutal. Three antagonistic growths
had to be kept alive: his mother's trust in him, his plan for becoming a
teacher, and Eustacia's happiness. His fervid nature could not afford
to relinquish one of these, though two of the three were as many as
he could hope to preserve. Though his love was as chaste as that of
Petrarch for his Laura, it had made fetters of what previously was
only a difficulty. A position which was not too simple when he stood
whole-hearted had become indescribably complicated by the addition of
Eustacia. Just when his mother was beginning to tolerate one scheme
he had introduced another still bitterer than the first, and the
combination was more than she could bear.

</CHAPTER>

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

completion: After studying all day, Clym heads out to the heath to watch an eclipse. And to meet Eustacia, of course. The two of them make out for a bit and talk about their true love. Eustacia is worried about Mrs. Yeobright not liking her, and Clym tries to reassure her. Then Eustacia starts asking Clym about Paris. Clym sounds bored by this line of conversation; it seems that Eustacia never shuts up about Paris. The two discuss their marriage plans at length and Eustacia agrees to marry Clym right away if he'll promise to bring her back to Paris. Clym isn't enthused by this idea, and Eustacia says she doesn't care if he goes to Paris, she'll marry him anyway. It's like these two are having two separate conversations, but they somehow manage to finalize their engagement. After Eustacia leaves, Clym starts to worry that they're rushing into marriage and that she only loves him because of his ties to Paris. He also worries about his strained relationship with his mother.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
5--Sharp Words Are Spoken, and a Crisis Ensues

When Yeobright was not with Eustacia he was sitting slavishly over his
books; when he was not reading he was meeting her. These meetings were
carried on with the greatest secrecy.

One afternoon his mother came home from a morning visit to Thomasin. He
could see from a disturbance in the lines of her face that something had
happened.

"I have been told an incomprehensible thing," she said mournfully. "The
captain has let out at the Woman that you and Eustacia Vye are engaged
to be married."

"We are," said Yeobright. "But it may not be yet for a very long time."

"I should hardly think it WOULD be yet for a very long time! You will
take her to Paris, I suppose?" She spoke with weary hopelessness.

"I am not going back to Paris."

"What will you do with a wife, then?"

"Keep a school in Budmouth, as I have told you."

"That's incredible! The place is overrun with schoolmasters. You have no
special qualifications. What possible chance is there for such as you?"

"There is no chance of getting rich. But with my system of education,
which is as new as it is true, I shall do a great deal of good to my
fellow-creatures."

"Dreams, dreams! If there had been any system left to be invented they
would have found it out at the universities long before this time."

"Never, Mother. They cannot find it out, because their teachers don't
come in contact with the class which demands such a system--that
is, those who have had no preliminary training. My plan is one for
instilling high knowledge into empty minds without first cramming them
with what has to be uncrammed again before true study begins."

"I might have believed you if you had kept yourself free from
entanglements; but this woman--if she had been a good girl it would have
been bad enough; but being----"

"She is a good girl."

"So you think. A Corfu bandmaster's daughter! What has her life been?
Her surname even is not her true one."

"She is Captain Vye's granddaughter, and her father merely took her
mother's name. And she is a lady by instinct."

"They call him 'captain,' but anybody is captain."

"He was in the Royal Navy!"

"No doubt he has been to sea in some tub or other. Why doesn't he look
after her? No lady would rove about the heath at all hours of the day
and night as she does. But that's not all of it. There was something
queer between her and Thomasin's husband at one time--I am as sure of it
as that I stand here."

"Eustacia has told me. He did pay her a little attention a year ago; but
there's no harm in that. I like her all the better."

"Clym," said his mother with firmness, "I have no proofs against her,
unfortunately. But if she makes you a good wife, there has never been a
bad one."

"Believe me, you are almost exasperating," said Yeobright vehemently.
"And this very day I had intended to arrange a meeting between you. But
you give me no peace; you try to thwart my wishes in everything."

"I hate the thought of any son of mine marrying badly! I wish I had
never lived to see this; it is too much for me--it is more than I
dreamt!" She turned to the window. Her breath was coming quickly, and
her lips were pale, parted, and trembling.

"Mother," said Clym, "whatever you do, you will always be dear to
me--that you know. But one thing I have a right to say, which is, that
at my age I am old enough to know what is best for me."

Mrs. Yeobright remained for some time silent and shaken, as if she could
say no more. Then she replied, "Best? Is it best for you to injure your
prospects for such a voluptuous, idle woman as that? Don't you see that
by the very fact of your choosing her you prove that you do not know
what is best for you? You give up your whole thought--you set your whole
soul--to please a woman."

"I do. And that woman is you."

"How can you treat me so flippantly!" said his mother, turning again to
him with a tearful look. "You are unnatural, Clym, and I did not expect
it."

"Very likely," said he cheerlessly. "You did not know the measure you
were going to mete me, and therefore did not know the measure that would
be returned to you again."

"You answer me; you think only of her. You stick to her in all things."

"That proves her to be worthy. I have never yet supported what is bad.
And I do not care only for her. I care for you and for myself, and
for anything that is good. When a woman once dislikes another she is
merciless!"

"O Clym! please don't go setting down as my fault what is your obstinate
wrongheadedness. If you wished to connect yourself with an unworthy
person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn't you do it in
Paris?--it is more the fashion there. You have come only to distress me,
a lonely woman, and shorten my days! I wish that you would bestow your
presence where you bestow your love!"

Clym said huskily, "You are my mother. I will say no more--beyond this,
that I beg your pardon for having thought this my home. I will no longer
inflict myself upon you; I'll go." And he went out with tears in his
eyes.

It was a sunny afternoon at the beginning of summer, and the moist
hollows of the heath had passed from their brown to their green stage.
Yeobright walked to the edge of the basin which extended down from
Mistover and Rainbarrow.

By this time he was calm, and he looked over the landscape. In the minor
valleys, between the hillocks which diversified the contour of the vale,
the fresh young ferns were luxuriantly growing up, ultimately to reach
a height of five or six feet. He descended a little way, flung himself
down in a spot where a path emerged from one of the small hollows, and
waited. Hither it was that he had promised Eustacia to bring his mother
this afternoon, that they might meet and be friends. His attempt had
utterly failed.

He was in a nest of vivid green. The ferny vegetation round him, though
so abundant, was quite uniform--it was a grove of machine-made foliage,
a world of green triangles with saw-edges, and not a single flower. The
air was warm with a vaporous warmth, and the stillness was unbroken.
Lizards, grasshoppers, and ants were the only living things to
be beheld. The scene seemed to belong to the ancient world of the
carboniferous period, when the forms of plants were few, and of the fern
kind; when there was neither bud nor blossom, nothing but a monotonous
extent of leafage, amid which no bird sang.

When he had reclined for some considerable time, gloomily pondering, he
discerned above the ferns a drawn bonnet of white silk approaching from
the left, and Yeobright knew directly that it covered the head of her
he loved. His heart awoke from its apathy to a warm excitement, and,
jumping to his feet, he said aloud, "I knew she was sure to come."

She vanished in a hollow for a few moments, and then her whole form
unfolded itself from the brake.

"Only you here?" she exclaimed, with a disappointed air, whose
hollowness was proved by her rising redness and her half-guilty low
laugh. "Where is Mrs. Yeobright?"

"She has not come," he replied in a subdued tone.

"I wish I had known that you would be here alone," she said seriously,
"and that we were going to have such an idle, pleasant time as this.
Pleasure not known beforehand is half wasted; to anticipate it is to
double it. I have not thought once today of having you all to myself
this afternoon, and the actual moment of a thing is so soon gone."

"It is indeed."

"Poor Clym!" she continued, looking tenderly into his face. "You are
sad. Something has happened at your home. Never mind what is--let us
only look at what seems."

"But, darling, what shall we do?" said he.

"Still go on as we do now--just live on from meeting to meeting, never
minding about another day. You, I know, are always thinking of that--I
can see you are. But you must not--will you, dear Clym?"

"You are just like all women. They are ever content to build their lives
on any incidental position that offers itself; whilst men would fain
make a globe to suit them. Listen to this, Eustacia. There is a subject
I have determined to put off no longer. Your sentiment on the wisdom
of Carpe diem does not impress me today. Our present mode of life must
shortly be brought to an end."

"It is your mother!"

"It is. I love you none the less in telling you; it is only right you
should know."

"I have feared my bliss," she said, with the merest motion of her lips.
"It has been too intense and consuming."

"There is hope yet. There are forty years of work in me yet, and why
should you despair? I am only at an awkward turning. I wish people
wouldn't be so ready to think that there is no progress without
uniformity."

"Ah--your mind runs off to the philosophical side of it. Well, these sad
and hopeless obstacles are welcome in one sense, for they enable us to
look with indifference upon the cruel satires that Fate loves to indulge
in. I have heard of people, who, upon coming suddenly into happiness,
have died from anxiety lest they should not live to enjoy it. I felt
myself in that whimsical state of uneasiness lately; but I shall be
spared it now. Let us walk on."

Clym took the hand which was already bared for him--it was a favourite
way with them to walk bare hand in bare hand--and led her through the
ferns. They formed a very comely picture of love at full flush, as they
walked along the valley that late afternoon, the sun sloping down on
their right, and throwing their thin spectral shadows, tall as poplar
trees, far out across the furze and fern. Eustacia went with her head
thrown back fancifully, a certain glad and voluptuous air of triumph
pervading her eyes at having won by her own unaided self a man who was
her perfect complement in attainment, appearance, and age. On the young
man's part, the paleness of face which he had brought with him
from Paris, and the incipient marks of time and thought, were less
perceptible than when he returned, the healthful and energetic
sturdiness which was his by nature having partially recovered its
original proportions. They wandered onward till they reached the nether
margin of the heath, where it became marshy and merged in moorland.

"I must part from you here, Clym," said Eustacia.

They stood still and prepared to bid each other farewell. Everything
before them was on a perfect level. The sun, resting on the horizon
line, streamed across the ground from between copper-coloured and lilac
clouds, stretched out in flats beneath a sky of pale soft green. All
dark objects on the earth that lay towards the sun were overspread by
a purple haze, against which groups of wailing gnats shone out, rising
upwards and dancing about like sparks of fire.

"O! this leaving you is too hard to bear!" exclaimed Eustacia in a
sudden whisper of anguish. "Your mother will influence you too much;
I shall not be judged fairly, it will get afloat that I am not a good
girl, and the witch story will be added to make me blacker!"

"They cannot. Nobody dares to speak disrespectfully of you or of me."

"Oh how I wish I was sure of never losing you--that you could not be
able to desert me anyhow!"

Clym stood silent a moment. His feelings were high, the moment was
passionate, and he cut the knot.

"You shall be sure of me, darling," he said, folding her in his arms.
"We will be married at once."

"O Clym!"

"Do you agree to it?"

"If--if we can."

"We certainly can, both being of full age. And I have not followed my
occupation all these years without having accumulated money; and if you
will agree to live in a tiny cottage somewhere on the heath, until I
take a house in Budmouth for the school, we can do it at a very little
expense."

"How long shall we have to live in the tiny cottage, Clym?"

"About six months. At the end of that time I shall have finished my
reading--yes, we will do it, and this heart-aching will be over. We
shall, of course, live in absolute seclusion, and our married life will
only begin to outward view when we take the house in Budmouth, where I
have already addressed a letter on the matter. Would your grandfather
allow you?"

"I think he would--on the understanding that it should not last longer
than six months."

"I will guarantee that, if no misfortune happens."

"If no misfortune happens," she repeated slowly.

"Which is not likely. Dearest, fix the exact day."

And then they consulted on the question, and the day was chosen. It was
to be a fortnight from that time.

This was the end of their talk, and Eustacia left him. Clym watched her
as she retired towards the sun. The luminous rays wrapped her up with
her increasing distance, and the rustle of her dress over the sprouting
sedge and grass died away. As he watched, the dead flat of the scenery
overpowered him, though he was fully alive to the beauty of that
untarnished early summer green which was worn for the nonce by the
poorest blade. There was something in its oppressive horizontality which
too much reminded him of the arena of life; it gave him a sense of bare
equality with, and no superiority to, a single living thing under the
sun.

Eustacia was now no longer the goddess but the woman to him, a being
to fight for, support, help, be maligned for. Now that he had reached
a cooler moment he would have preferred a less hasty marriage; but the
card was laid, and he determined to abide by the game. Whether Eustacia
was to add one other to the list of those who love too hotly to love
long and well, the forthcoming event was certainly a ready way of
proving.

</CHAPTER>

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

completion: So Clym finally breaks the news of his engagement to his mom, who flips out. They have a huge argument. Mrs. Yeobright disses Eustacia's family, Eustacia herself, and Clym. Mrs. Yeobright finishes her rant with a flourish - "If you wished to connect yourself with an unworthy person why did you come home here to do it? Why didn't you do it in Paris? - it's more the fashion there" . Clym storms out after that and goes to commune with nature. Eustacia comes to meet him and sympathizes with him over his mom. She agrees to get married immediately and Clym shares the happy news that they'll have to live in a tiny cottage at first while he continues to study. Eustacia makes him promise it will only be for a few months and says her grandpa should be cool with it as long as it's not for too long. Clym gets depressed after Eustacia leaves. But he feels like he's stuck now and must make her see the best of it. Apparently, if your last name is Yeobright, you have a tendency to rush into ill-advised marriages and then regret it soon afterwards.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
6--Yeobright Goes, and the Breach Is Complete

All that evening smart sounds denoting an active packing up came from
Yeobright's room to the ears of his mother downstairs.

Next morning he departed from the house and again proceeded across the
heath. A long day's march was before him, his object being to secure a
dwelling to which he might take Eustacia when she became his wife.
Such a house, small, secluded, and with its windows boarded up, he had
casually observed a month earlier, about two miles beyond the village
of East Egdon, and six miles distant altogether; and thither he directed
his steps today.

The weather was far different from that of the evening before. The
yellow and vapoury sunset which had wrapped up Eustacia from his parting
gaze had presaged change. It was one of those not infrequent days of
an English June which are as wet and boisterous as November. The cold
clouds hastened on in a body, as if painted on a moving slide. Vapours
from other continents arrived upon the wind, which curled and parted
round him as he walked on.

At length Clym reached the margin of a fir and beech plantation that had
been enclosed from heath land in the year of his birth. Here the trees,
laden heavily with their new and humid leaves, were now suffering more
damage than during the highest winds of winter, when the boughs are
especially disencumbered to do battle with the storm. The wet young
beeches were undergoing amputations, bruises, cripplings, and harsh
lacerations, from which the wasting sap would bleed for many a day to
come, and which would leave scars visible till the day of their burning.
Each stem was wrenched at the root, where it moved like a bone in its
socket, and at every onset of the gale convulsive sounds came from the
branches, as if pain were felt. In a neighbouring brake a finch was
trying to sing; but the wind blew under his feathers till they stood on
end, twisted round his little tail, and made him give up his song.

Yet a few yards to Yeobright's left, on the open heath, how
ineffectively gnashed the storm! Those gusts which tore the trees merely
waved the furze and heather in a light caress. Egdon was made for such
times as these.

Yeobright reached the empty house about midday. It was almost as lonely
as that of Eustacia's grandfather, but the fact that it stood near
a heath was disguised by a belt of firs which almost enclosed the
premises. He journeyed on about a mile further to the village in which
the owner lived, and, returning with him to the house, arrangements were
completed, and the man undertook that one room at least should be ready
for occupation the next day. Clym's intention was to live there alone
until Eustacia should join him on their wedding-day.

Then he turned to pursue his way homeward through the drizzle that had
so greatly transformed the scene. The ferns, among which he had lain in
comfort yesterday, were dripping moisture from every frond, wetting
his legs through as he brushed past; and the fur of the rabbits leaping
before him was clotted into dark locks by the same watery surrounding.

He reached home damp and weary enough after his ten-mile walk. It had
hardly been a propitious beginning, but he had chosen his course, and
would show no swerving. The evening and the following morning were spent
in concluding arrangements for his departure. To stay at home a minute
longer than necessary after having once come to his determination would
be, he felt, only to give new pain to his mother by some word, look, or
deed.

He had hired a conveyance and sent off his goods by two o'clock that
day. The next step was to get some furniture, which, after serving
for temporary use in the cottage, would be available for the house
at Budmouth when increased by goods of a better description. A mart
extensive enough for the purpose existed at Anglebury, some miles beyond
the spot chosen for his residence, and there he resolved to pass the
coming night.

It now only remained to wish his mother good-bye. She was sitting by the
window as usual when he came downstairs.

"Mother, I am going to leave you," he said, holding out his hand.

"I thought you were, by your packing," replied Mrs. Yeobright in a voice
from which every particle of emotion was painfully excluded.

"And you will part friends with me?"

"Certainly, Clym."

"I am going to be married on the twenty-fifth."

"I thought you were going to be married."

"And then--and then you must come and see us. You will understand me
better after that, and our situation will not be so wretched as it is
now."

"I do not think it likely I shall come to see you."

"Then it will not be my fault or Eustacia's, Mother. Good-bye!"

He kissed her cheek, and departed in great misery, which was several
hours in lessening itself to a controllable level. The position had
been such that nothing more could be said without, in the first place,
breaking down a barrier; and that was not to be done.

No sooner had Yeobright gone from his mother's house than her face
changed its rigid aspect for one of blank despair. After a while she
wept, and her tears brought some relief. During the rest of the day she
did nothing but walk up and down the garden path in a state bordering
on stupefaction. Night came, and with it but little rest. The next day,
with an instinct to do something which should reduce prostration
to mournfulness, she went to her son's room, and with her own hands
arranged it in order, for an imaginary time when he should return
again. She gave some attention to her flowers, but it was perfunctorily
bestowed, for they no longer charmed her.

It was a great relief when, early in the afternoon, Thomasin paid her an
unexpected visit. This was not the first meeting between the relatives
since Thomasin's marriage; and past blunders having been in a rough way
rectified, they could always greet each other with pleasure and ease.

The oblique band of sunlight which followed her through the door became
the young wife well. It illuminated her as her presence illuminated the
heath. In her movements, in her gaze, she reminded the beholder of
the feathered creatures who lived around her home. All similes and
allegories concerning her began and ended with birds. There was as much
variety in her motions as in their flight. When she was musing she was
a kestrel, which hangs in the air by an invisible motion of its wings.
When she was in a high wind her light body was blown against trees and
banks like a heron's. When she was frightened she darted noiselessly
like a kingfisher. When she was serene she skimmed like a swallow, and
that is how she was moving now.

"You are looking very blithe, upon my word, Tamsie," said Mrs.
Yeobright, with a sad smile. "How is Damon?"

"He is very well."

"Is he kind to you, Thomasin?" And Mrs. Yeobright observed her narrowly.

"Pretty fairly."

"Is that honestly said?"

"Yes, Aunt. I would tell you if he were unkind." She added, blushing,
and with hesitation, "He--I don't know if I ought to complain to you
about this, but I am not quite sure what to do. I want some money, you
know, Aunt--some to buy little things for myself--and he doesn't give
me any. I don't like to ask him; and yet, perhaps, he doesn't give it me
because he doesn't know. Ought I to mention it to him, Aunt?"

"Of course you ought. Have you never said a word on the matter?"

"You see, I had some of my own," said Thomasin evasively, "and I have
not wanted any of his until lately. I did just say something about it
last week; but he seems--not to remember."

"He must be made to remember. You are aware that I have a little box
full of spade-guineas, which your uncle put into my hands to divide
between yourself and Clym whenever I chose. Perhaps the time has come
when it should be done. They can be turned into sovereigns at any
moment."

"I think I should like to have my share--that is, if you don't mind."

"You shall, if necessary. But it is only proper that you should first
tell your husband distinctly that you are without any, and see what he
will do."

"Very well, I will.... Aunt, I have heard about Clym. I know you are in
trouble about him, and that's why I have come."

Mrs. Yeobright turned away, and her features worked in her attempt to
conceal her feelings. Then she ceased to make any attempt, and said,
weeping, "O Thomasin, do you think he hates me? How can he bear to
grieve me so, when I have lived only for him through all these years?"

"Hate you--no," said Thomasin soothingly. "It is only that he loves her
too well. Look at it quietly--do. It is not so very bad of him. Do you
know, I thought it not the worst match he could have made. Miss Vye's
family is a good one on her mother's side; and her father was a romantic
wanderer--a sort of Greek Ulysses."

"It is no use, Thomasin; it is no use. Your intention is good; but I
will not trouble you to argue. I have gone through the whole that can be
said on either side times, and many times. Clym and I have not parted
in anger; we have parted in a worse way. It is not a passionate quarrel
that would have broken my heart; it is the steady opposition and
persistence in going wrong that he has shown. O Thomasin, he was so good
as a little boy--so tender and kind!"

"He was, I know."

"I did not think one whom I called mine would grow up to treat me like
this. He spoke to me as if I opposed him to injure him. As though I
could wish him ill!"

"There are worse women in the world than Eustacia Vye."

"There are too many better that's the agony of it. It was she, Thomasin,
and she only, who led your husband to act as he did--I would swear it!"

"No," said Thomasin eagerly. "It was before he knew me that he thought
of her, and it was nothing but a mere flirtation."

"Very well; we will let it be so. There is little use in unravelling
that now. Sons must be blind if they will. Why is it that a woman can
see from a distance what a man cannot see close? Clym must do as he
will--he is nothing more to me. And this is maternity--to give one's
best years and best love to ensure the fate of being despised!"

"You are too unyielding. Think how many mothers there are whose sons
have brought them to public shame by real crimes before you feel so
deeply a case like this."

"Thomasin, don't lecture me--I can't have it. It is the excess above
what we expect that makes the force of the blow, and that may not
be greater in their case than in mine--they may have foreseen the
worst.... I am wrongly made, Thomasin," she added, with a mournful smile.
"Some widows can guard against the wounds their children give them by
turning their hearts to another husband and beginning life again. But I
always was a poor, weak, one-idea'd creature--I had not the compass of
heart nor the enterprise for that. Just as forlorn and stupefied as
I was when my husband's spirit flew away I have sat ever since--never
attempting to mend matters at all. I was comparatively a young woman
then, and I might have had another family by this time, and have been
comforted by them for the failure of this one son."

"It is more noble in you that you did not."

"The more noble, the less wise."

"Forget it, and be soothed, dear Aunt. And I shall not leave you alone
for long. I shall come and see you every day."

And for one week Thomasin literally fulfilled her word. She endeavoured
to make light of the wedding; and brought news of the preparations, and
that she was invited to be present. The next week she was rather unwell,
and did not appear. Nothing had as yet been done about the guineas, for
Thomasin feared to address her husband again on the subject, and Mrs.
Yeobright had insisted upon this.

One day just before this time Wildeve was standing at the door of
the Quiet Woman. In addition to the upward path through the heath
to Rainbarrow and Mistover, there was a road which branched from the
highway a short distance below the inn, and ascended to Mistover by a
circuitous and easy incline. This was the only route on that side for
vehicles to the captain's retreat. A light cart from the nearest town
descended the road, and the lad who was driving pulled up in front of
the inn for something to drink.

"You come from Mistover?" said Wildeve.

"Yes. They are taking in good things up there. Going to be a wedding."
And the driver buried his face in his mug.

Wildeve had not received an inkling of the fact before, and a sudden
expression of pain overspread his face. He turned for a moment into the
passage to hide it. Then he came back again.

"Do you mean Miss Vye?" he said. "How is it--that she can be married so
soon?"

"By the will of God and a ready young man, I suppose."

"You don't mean Mr. Yeobright?"

"Yes. He has been creeping about with her all the spring."

"I suppose--she was immensely taken with him?"

"She is crazy about him, so their general servant of all work tells me.
And that lad Charley that looks after the horse is all in a daze about
it. The stun-poll has got fond-like of her."

"Is she lively--is she glad? Going to be married so soon--well!"

"It isn't so very soon."

"No; not so very soon."

Wildeve went indoors to the empty room, a curious heartache within him.
He rested his elbow upon the mantelpiece and his face upon his hand.
When Thomasin entered the room he did not tell her of what he had heard.
The old longing for Eustacia had reappeared in his soul--and it was
mainly because he had discovered that it was another man's intention to
possess her.

To be yearning for the difficult, to be weary of that offered; to care
for the remote, to dislike the near; it was Wildeve's nature always.
This is the true mark of the man of sentiment. Though Wildeve's fevered
feeling had not been elaborated to real poetical compass, it was of the
standard sort. His might have been called the Rousseau of Egdon.

</CHAPTER>

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

completion: Clym leaves home and goes to set up his new digs. He walks to his cottage. It's a rainy, ominous day. Is Hardy giving us a hint here? Clym then goes back home to get his things, which is really awkward. He also announces that he'll be getting married on the 25th. Mrs. Yeobright says she doesn't plan to visit, and Clym leaves. We stay with Mrs. Yeobright, who's depressed but hides it by being angry. Thomasin swings by to ask for some advice - she needs some money and Damon won't give her any. Mrs. Yeobright tells her to quit being a doormat and ask for some. She worries about how Damon is treating Thomasin. Then she tells Thomasin that she'll give her the inheritance early. The two women discuss Clym and Thomasin tries to convince her aunt to give him a chance. She reassures her aunt that Clym doesn't hate her and she tries to get her aunt to speak to Clym. But Mrs. Yeobright refuses. We cut over to Wildeve, who's busy gossiping with a local. Wildeve learns that Eustacia is engaged to Clym and Wildeve is shocked. He then decides that he's really in love with Eustacia after all. Drama.