Chapter: <CHAPTER>
BOOK FIVE -- THE DISCOVERY
1--"Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery"


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

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

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

"Is he light-headed, ma'am?"

"No. He is quite sensible now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you say so?"

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

"No, Clym."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She sinned against you, I think."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A week, I think."

"And then I became calm."

"Yes, for four days."

"And now I have left off being calm."

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Don't press such a question, dear Clym."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You laboured to win her round; I did nothing. I, who was going to teach
people the higher secrets of happiness, did not know how to keep out of
that gross misery which the most untaught are wise enough to avoid."

"How did you get here tonight, Thomasin?" said Eustacia.

"Damon set me down at the end of the lane. He has driven into East Egdon
on business, and he will come and pick me up by-and-by."

Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had come,
and was waiting outside with his horse and gig.

"Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes," said Thomasin.

"I will run down myself," said Eustacia.

She went down. Wildeve had alighted, and was standing before the horse's
head when Eustacia opened the door. He did not turn for a moment,
thinking the comer Thomasin. Then he looked, startled ever so little,
and said one word: "Well?"

"I have not yet told him," she replied in a whisper.

"Then don't do so till he is well--it will be fatal. You are ill
yourself."

"I am wretched.... O Damon," she said, bursting into tears, "I--I can't
tell you how unhappy I am! I can hardly bear this. I can tell nobody of
my trouble--nobody knows of it but you."

"Poor girl!" said Wildeve, visibly affected at her distress, and at
last led on so far as to take her hand. "It is hard, when you have done
nothing to deserve it, that you should have got involved in such a web
as this. You were not made for these sad scenes. I am to blame most. If
I could only have saved you from it all!"

"But, Damon, please pray tell me what I must do? To sit by him hour
after hour, and hear him reproach himself as being the cause of her
death, and to know that I am the sinner, if any human being is at all,
drives me into cold despair. I don't know what to do. Should I tell him
or should I not tell him? I always am asking myself that. O, I want to
tell him; and yet I am afraid. If he finds it out he must surely kill me,
for nothing else will be in proportion to his feelings now. 'Beware the
fury of a patient man' sounds day by day in my ears as I watch him."

"Well, wait till he is better, and trust to chance. And when you tell,
you must only tell part--for his own sake."

"Which part should I keep back?"

Wildeve paused. "That I was in the house at the time," he said in a low
tone.

"Yes; it must be concealed, seeing what has been whispered. How much
easier are hasty actions than speeches that will excuse them!"

"If he were only to die--" Wildeve murmured.

"Do not think of it! I would not buy hope of immunity by so cowardly
a desire even if I hated him. Now I am going up to him again. Thomasin
bade me tell you she would be down in a few minutes. Good-bye."

She returned, and Thomasin soon appeared. When she was seated in the gig
with her husband, and the horse was turning to go off, Wildeve lifted
his eyes to the bedroom windows. Looking from one of them he could
discern a pale, tragic face watching him drive away. It was Eustacia's.


</CHAPTER>

 It's now been three weeks since Mrs. Yeobright died. Eustacia is hanging around outside in her garden, as usual, and Humphrey stops by to ask after Clym. Clym is still inconsolable. Eustacia goes inside to speak to Clym. He's super depressed. Eustacia still hasn't said a word to him about not letting his mom in for a visit that day. The two talk in circles since all Clym can, or wants, to talk about is how guilty he feels and how wonderful his mom was. Clym wallows and Eustacia stews. Then Thomasin stops by for a visit. Clym goes on a shame-spiral rant, which really worries Thomasin. Eustacia remains pretty quiet through the whole thing. We learn that Thomasin is going to have her baby in another two months. Clym just won't stop talking and is obsessed about why his mother said what she did to Johnny before she died. Finally Damon pulls up in his carriage to pick up Thomasin. Eustacia rushes out to speak to him about her own guilt, since Clym is hogging the guilt spotlight at home. Damon offers up stupid advice, like not telling Clym he was in the house when Mrs. Yeobright came to visit. He then wishes that Clym would just die already and Eustacia gets mad at him. Thomasin comes out and the Wildeves drive off, with Eustacia watching them from the window.

