Chapter: <CHAPTER>
6--The Two Stand Face to Face


The room had been arranged with a view to the dancing, the large oak
table having been moved back till it stood as a breastwork to the
fireplace. At each end, behind, and in the chimney-corner were grouped
the guests, many of them being warm-faced and panting, among whom
Eustacia cursorily recognized some well-to-do persons from beyond the
heath. Thomasin, as she had expected, was not visible, and Eustacia
recollected that a light had shone from an upper window when they were
outside--the window, probably, of Thomasin's room. A nose, chin, hands,
knees, and toes projected from the seat within the chimney opening,
which members she found to unite in the person of Grandfer Cantle, Mrs.
Yeobright's occasional assistant in the garden, and therefore one of the
invited. The smoke went up from an Etna of peat in front of him, played
round the notches of the chimney-crook, struck against the salt-box, and
got lost among the flitches.

Another part of the room soon riveted her gaze. At the other side of the
chimney stood the settle, which is the necessary supplement to a fire so
open that nothing less than a strong breeze will carry up the smoke. It
is, to the hearths of old-fashioned cavernous fireplaces, what the east
belt of trees is to the exposed country estate, or the north wall to
the garden. Outside the settle candles gutter, locks of hair wave, young
women shiver, and old men sneeze. Inside is Paradise. Not a symptom of a
draught disturbs the air; the sitters' backs are as warm as their faces,
and songs and old tales are drawn from the occupants by the comfortable
heat, like fruit from melon plants in a frame.

It was, however, not with those who sat in the settle that Eustacia was
concerned. A face showed itself with marked distinctness against the
dark-tanned wood of the upper part. The owner, who was leaning against
the settle's outer end, was Clement Yeobright, or Clym, as he was called
here; she knew it could be nobody else. The spectacle constituted an
area of two feet in Rembrandt's intensest manner. A strange power in the
lounger's appearance lay in the fact that, though his whole figure was
visible, the observer's eye was only aware of his face.

To one of middle age the countenance was that of a young man, though a
youth might hardly have seen any necessity for the term of immaturity.
But it was really one of those faces which convey less the idea of
so many years as its age than of so much experience as its store. The
number of their years may have adequately summed up Jared, Mahalaleel,
and the rest of the antediluvians, but the age of a modern man is to be
measured by the intensity of his history.

The face was well shaped, even excellently. But the mind within
was beginning to use it as a mere waste tablet whereon to trace its
idiosyncrasies as they developed themselves. The beauty here visible
would in no long time be ruthlessly over-run by its parasite, thought,
which might just as well have fed upon a plainer exterior where there
was nothing it could harm. Had Heaven preserved Yeobright from a wearing
habit of meditation, people would have said, "A handsome man." Had
his brain unfolded under sharper contours they would have said, "A
thoughtful man." But an inner strenuousness was preying upon an outer
symmetry, and they rated his look as singular.

Hence people who began by beholding him ended by perusing him.
His countenance was overlaid with legible meanings. Without being
thought-worn he yet had certain marks derived from a perception of his
surroundings, such as are not unfrequently found on men at the end of
the four or five years of endeavour which follow the close of placid
pupilage. He already showed that thought is a disease of flesh, and
indirectly bore evidence that ideal physical beauty is incompatible
with emotional development and a full recognition of the coil of things.
Mental luminousness must be fed with the oil of life, even though there
is already a physical need for it; and the pitiful sight of two demands
on one supply was just showing itself here.

When standing before certain men the philosopher regrets that thinkers
are but perishable tissue, the artist that perishable tissue has to
think. Thus to deplore, each from his point of view, the mutually
destructive interdependence of spirit and flesh would have been
instinctive with these in critically observing Yeobright.

As for his look, it was a natural cheerfulness striving against
depression from without, and not quite succeeding. The look suggested
isolation, but it revealed something more. As is usual with bright
natures, the deity that lies ignominiously chained within an ephemeral
human carcase shone out of him like a ray.

The effect upon Eustacia was palpable. The extraordinary pitch of
excitement that she had reached beforehand would, indeed, have caused
her to be influenced by the most commonplace man. She was troubled at
Yeobright's presence.

The remainder of the play ended--the Saracen's head was cut off, and
Saint George stood as victor. Nobody commented, any more than they would
have commented on the fact of mushrooms coming in autumn or snowdrops
in spring. They took the piece as phlegmatically as did the actors
themselves. It was a phase of cheerfulness which was, as a matter of
course, to be passed through every Christmas; and there was no more to
be said.

They sang the plaintive chant which follows the play, during which all
the dead men rise to their feet in a silent and awful manner, like the
ghosts of Napoleon's soldiers in the Midnight Review. Afterwards the
door opened, and Fairway appeared on the threshold, accompanied by
Christian and another. They had been waiting outside for the conclusion
of the play, as the players had waited for the conclusion of the dance.

"Come in, come in," said Mrs. Yeobright; and Clym went forward to
welcome them. "How is it you are so late? Grandfer Cantle has been here
ever so long, and we thought you'd have come with him, as you live so
near one another."

"Well, I should have come earlier," Mr. Fairway said and paused to
look along the beam of the ceiling for a nail to hang his hat on; but,
finding his accustomed one to be occupied by the mistletoe, and all
the nails in the walls to be burdened with bunches of holly, he at
last relieved himself of the hat by ticklishly balancing it between the
candle-box and the head of the clock-case. "I should have come earlier,
ma'am," he resumed, with a more composed air, "but I know what parties
be, and how there's none too much room in folks' houses at such times,
so I thought I wouldn't come till you'd got settled a bit."

"And I thought so too, Mrs. Yeobright," said Christian earnestly, "but
Father there was so eager that he had no manners at all, and left home
almost afore 'twas dark. I told him 'twas barely decent in a' old man to
come so oversoon; but words be wind."

"Klk! I wasn't going to bide waiting about, till half the game was over!
I'm as light as a kite when anything's going on!" crowed Grandfer Cantle
from the chimneyseat.

Fairway had meanwhile concluded a critical gaze at Yeobright. "Now,
you may not believe it," he said to the rest of the room, "but I should
never have knowed this gentleman if I had met him anywhere off his own
he'th--he's altered so much."

"You too have altered, and for the better, I think Timothy," said
Yeobright, surveying the firm figure of Fairway.

"Master Yeobright, look me over too. I have altered for the better,
haven't I, hey?" said Grandfer Cantle, rising and placing himself
something above half a foot from Clym's eye, to induce the most
searching criticism.

"To be sure we will," said Fairway, taking the candle and moving it over
the surface of the Grandfer's countenance, the subject of his scrutiny
irradiating himself with light and pleasant smiles, and giving himself
jerks of juvenility.

"You haven't changed much," said Yeobright.

"If there's any difference, Grandfer is younger," appended Fairway
decisively.

"And yet not my own doing, and I feel no pride in it," said the pleased
ancient. "But I can't be cured of my vagaries; them I plead guilty to.
Yes, Master Cantle always was that, as we know. But I am nothing by the
side of you, Mister Clym."

"Nor any o' us," said Humphrey, in a low rich tone of admiration, not
intended to reach anybody's ears.

"Really, there would have been nobody here who could have stood as
decent second to him, or even third, if I hadn't been a soldier in the
Bang-up Locals (as we was called for our smartness)," said Grandfer
Cantle. "And even as 'tis we all look a little scammish beside him. But
in the year four 'twas said there wasn't a finer figure in the whole
South Wessex than I, as I looked when dashing past the shop-winders with
the rest of our company on the day we ran out o' Budmouth because it was
thoughted that Boney had landed round the point. There was I, straight
as a young poplar, wi' my firelock, and my bagnet, and my spatterdashes,
and my stock sawing my jaws off, and my accoutrements sheening like
the seven stars! Yes, neighbours, I was a pretty sight in my soldiering
days. You ought to have seen me in four!"

"'Tis his mother's side where Master Clym's figure comes from, bless
ye," said Timothy. "I know'd her brothers well. Longer coffins were
never made in the whole country of South Wessex, and 'tis said that poor
George's knees were crumpled up a little e'en as 'twas."

"Coffins, where?" inquired Christian, drawing nearer. "Have the ghost of
one appeared to anybody, Master Fairway?"

"No, no. Don't let your mind so mislead your ears, Christian; and be a
man," said Timothy reproachfully.

"I will." said Christian. "But now I think o't my shadder last night
seemed just the shape of a coffin. What is it a sign of when your
shade's like a coffin, neighbours? It can't be nothing to be afeared of,
I suppose?"

"Afeared, no!" said the Grandfer. "Faith, I was never afeard of nothing
except Boney, or I shouldn't ha' been the soldier I was. Yes, 'tis a
thousand pities you didn't see me in four!"

By this time the mummers were preparing to leave; but Mrs. Yeobright
stopped them by asking them to sit down and have a little supper. To
this invitation Father Christmas, in the name of them all, readily
agreed.

Eustacia was happy in the opportunity of staying a little longer.
The cold and frosty night without was doubly frigid to her. But the
lingering was not without its difficulties. Mrs. Yeobright, for want
of room in the larger apartment, placed a bench for the mummers halfway
through the pantry door, which opened from the sitting-room. Here they
seated themselves in a row, the door being left open--thus they were
still virtually in the same apartment. Mrs. Yeobright now murmured a few
words to her son, who crossed the room to the pantry door, striking his
head against the mistletoe as he passed, and brought the mummers beef
and bread, cake pastry, mead, and elder-wine, the waiting being done by
him and his mother, that the little maid-servant might sit as guest. The
mummers doffed their helmets, and began to eat and drink.

"But you will surely have some?" said Clym to the Turkish Knight, as he
stood before that warrior, tray in hand. She had refused, and still sat
covered, only the sparkle of her eyes being visible between the ribbons
which covered her face.

"None, thank you," replied Eustacia.

"He's quite a youngster," said the Saracen apologetically, "and you
must excuse him. He's not one of the old set, but have jined us because
t'other couldn't come."

"But he will take something?" persisted Yeobright. "Try a glass of mead
or elder-wine."

"Yes, you had better try that," said the Saracen. "It will keep the cold
out going home-along."

Though Eustacia could not eat without uncovering her face she could
drink easily enough beneath her disguise. The elder-wine was accordingly
accepted, and the glass vanished inside the ribbons.

At moments during this performance Eustacia was half in doubt about
the security of her position; yet it had a fearful joy. A series of
attentions paid to her, and yet not to her but to some imaginary person,
by the first man she had ever been inclined to adore, complicated
her emotions indescribably. She had loved him partly because he was
exceptional in this scene, partly because she had determined to love
him, chiefly because she was in desperate need of loving somebody
after wearying of Wildeve. Believing that she must love him in spite of
herself, she had been influenced after the fashion of the second Lord
Lyttleton and other persons, who have dreamed that they were to die on a
certain day, and by stress of a morbid imagination have actually brought
about that event. Once let a maiden admit the possibility of her being
stricken with love for someone at a certain hour and place, and the
thing is as good as done.

Did anything at this moment suggest to Yeobright the sex of the creature
whom that fantastic guise inclosed, how extended was her scope both in
feeling and in making others feel, and how far her compass transcended
that of her companions in the band? When the disguised Queen of Love
appeared before Aeneas a preternatural perfume accompanied her presence
and betrayed her quality. If such a mysterious emanation ever was
projected by the emotions of an earthly woman upon their object, it must
have signified Eustacia's presence to Yeobright now. He looked at her
wistfully, then seemed to fall into a reverie, as if he were forgetting
what he observed. The momentary situation ended, he passed on, and
Eustacia sipped her wine without knowing what she drank. The man for
whom she had pre-determined to nourish a passion went into the small
room, and across it to the further extremity.

The mummers, as has been stated, were seated on a bench, one end of
which extended into the small apartment, or pantry, for want of space
in the outer room. Eustacia, partly from shyness, had chosen the midmost
seat, which thus commanded a view of the interior of the pantry as well
as the room containing the guests. When Clym passed down the pantry her
eyes followed him in the gloom which prevailed there. At the remote
end was a door which, just as he was about to open it for himself, was
opened by somebody within; and light streamed forth.

The person was Thomasin, with a candle, looking anxious, pale, and
interesting. Yeobright appeared glad to see her, and pressed her hand.
"That's right, Tamsie," he said heartily, as though recalled to himself
by the sight of her, "you have decided to come down. I am glad of it."

"Hush--no, no," she said quickly. "I only came to speak to you."

"But why not join us?"

"I cannot. At least I would rather not. I am not well enough, and we
shall have plenty of time together now you are going to be home a good
long holiday."

"It isn't nearly so pleasant without you. Are you really ill?"

"Just a little, my old cousin--here," she said, playfully sweeping her
hand across her heart.

"Ah, Mother should have asked somebody else to be present tonight,
perhaps?"

"O no, indeed. I merely stepped down, Clym, to ask you--" Here he
followed her through the doorway into the private room beyond, and,
the door closing, Eustacia and the mummer who sat next to her, the only
other witness of the performance, saw and heard no more.

The heat flew to Eustacia's head and cheeks. She instantly guessed that
Clym, having been home only these two or three days, had not as yet
been made acquainted with Thomasin's painful situation with regard to
Wildeve; and seeing her living there just as she had been living before
he left home, he naturally suspected nothing. Eustacia felt a wild
jealousy of Thomasin on the instant. Though Thomasin might possibly have
tender sentiments towards another man as yet, how long could they be
expected to last when she was shut up here with this interesting and
travelled cousin of hers? There was no knowing what affection might not
soon break out between the two, so constantly in each other's society,
and not a distracting object near. Clym's boyish love for her might have
languished, but it might easily be revived again.

Eustacia was nettled by her own contrivances. What a sheer waste of
herself to be dressed thus while another was shining to advantage! Had
she known the full effect of the encounter she would have moved heaven
and earth to get here in a natural manner. The power of her face all
lost, the charm of her emotions all disguised, the fascinations of her
coquetry denied existence, nothing but a voice left to her; she had a
sense of the doom of Echo. "Nobody here respects me," she said. She had
overlooked the fact that, in coming as a boy among other boys, she
would be treated as a boy. The slight, though of her own causing, and
self-explanatory, she was unable to dismiss as unwittingly shown, so
sensitive had the situation made her.

Women have done much for themselves in histrionic dress. To look far
below those who, like a certain fair personator of Polly Peachum early
in the last century, and another of Lydia Languish early in this, (1)
have won not only love but ducal coronets into the bargain, whole shoals
of them have reached to the initial satisfaction of getting love almost
whence they would. But the Turkish Knight was denied even the chance
of achieving this by the fluttering ribbons which she dared not brush
aside.

     (1) Written in 1877.

Yeobright returned to the room without his cousin. When within two or
three feet of Eustacia he stopped, as if again arrested by a thought.
He was gazing at her. She looked another way, disconcerted, and wondered
how long this purgatory was to last. After lingering a few seconds he
passed on again.

To court their own discomfiture by love is a common instinct with
certain perfervid women. Conflicting sensations of love, fear, and shame
reduced Eustacia to a state of the utmost uneasiness. To escape was her
great and immediate desire. The other mummers appeared to be in no
hurry to leave; and murmuring to the lad who sat next to her that she
preferred waiting for them outside the house, she moved to the door as
imperceptibly as possible, opened it, and slipped out.

The calm, lone scene reassured her. She went forward to the palings and
leant over them, looking at the moon. She had stood thus but a little
time when the door again opened. Expecting to see the remainder of the
band Eustacia turned; but no--Clym Yeobright came out as softly as she
had done, and closed the door behind him.

He advanced and stood beside her. "I have an odd opinion," he said, "and
should like to ask you a question. Are you a woman--or am I wrong?"

"I am a woman."

His eyes lingered on her with great interest. "Do girls often play as
mummers now? They never used to."

"They don't now."

"Why did you?"

"To get excitement and shake off depression," she said in low tones.

"What depressed you?"

"Life."

"That's a cause of depression a good many have to put up with."

"Yes."

A long silence. "And do you find excitement?" asked Clym at last.

"At this moment, perhaps."

"Then you are vexed at being discovered?"

"Yes; though I thought I might be."

"I would gladly have asked you to our party had I known you wished to
come. Have I ever been acquainted with you in my youth?"

"Never."

"Won't you come in again, and stay as long as you like?"

"No. I wish not to be further recognized."

"Well, you are safe with me." After remaining in thought a minute he
added gently, "I will not intrude upon you longer. It is a strange way
of meeting, and I will not ask why I find a cultivated woman playing
such a part as this."

She did not volunteer the reason which he seemed to hope for, and he
wished her good night, going thence round to the back of the house,
where he walked up and down by himself for some time before re-
entering.

Eustacia, warmed with an inner fire, could not wait for her companions
after this. She flung back the ribbons from her face, opened the
gate, and at once struck into the heath. She did not hasten along. Her
grandfather was in bed at this hour, for she so frequently walked upon
the hills on moonlight nights that he took no notice of her comings and
goings, and, enjoying himself in his own way, left her to do likewise.
A more important subject than that of getting indoors now engrossed her.
Yeobright, if he had the least curiosity, would infallibly discover her
name. What then? She first felt a sort of exultation at the way in
which the adventure had terminated, even though at moments between
her exultations she was abashed and blushful. Then this consideration
recurred to chill her: What was the use of her exploit? She was at
present a total stranger to the Yeobright family. The unreasonable
nimbus of romance with which she had encircled that man might be her
misery. How could she allow herself to become so infatuated with a
stranger? And to fill the cup of her sorrow there would be Thomasin,
living day after day in inflammable proximity to him; for she had just
learnt that, contrary to her first belief, he was going to stay at home
some considerable time.

She reached the wicket at Mistover Knap, but before opening it she
turned and faced the heath once more. The form of Rainbarrow stood above
the hills, and the moon stood above Rainbarrow. The air was charged with
silence and frost. The scene reminded Eustacia of a circumstance which
till that moment she had totally forgotten. She had promised to meet
Wildeve by the Barrow this very night at eight, to give a final answer
to his pleading for an elopement.

She herself had fixed the evening and the hour. He had probably come to
the spot, waited there in the cold, and been greatly disappointed.

"Well, so much the better--it did not hurt him," she said serenely.
Wildeve had at present the rayless outline of the sun through smoked
glass, and she could say such things as that with the greatest facility.

She remained deeply pondering; and Thomasin's winning manner towards her
cousin arose again upon Eustacia's mind.

"O that she had been married to Damon before this!" she said. "And
she would if it hadn't been for me! If I had only known--if I had only
known!"

Eustacia once more lifted her deep stormy eyes to the moonlight, and,
sighing that tragic sigh of hers which was so much like a shudder,
entered the shadow of the roof. She threw off her trappings in the
outhouse, rolled them up, and went indoors to her chamber.


</CHAPTER>

 Eustacia is still propped against the wall watching the party and looking for Clym. Thomasin is nowhere to be seen, and Eustacia guesses that she's hiding due to her scandalous almost-but-not-quite marriage to Damon Wildeve. But then Eustacia sees Clym and all other thoughts stop. We learn that he looks young but not immature; is handsome; looks intelligent; seems to stand out in the crowd; and so on. Eustacia is completely smitten. Finally the play ends and Timothy Fairway enters with Christian Cantle. Mrs. Yeobright asks why they're so late and they guys reply that they were waiting for the party to settle down some before making a fashionably late appearance. Grandfer Cantle sidles over and the group begin discussing how much Clym has or hasn't changed over the years he's been in Paris. Other random heath people come over and have yet another rambling conversation. Meanwhile Mrs. Yeobright invites the mummers to stay and party. Eustacia is glad she can hang out and gaze at Clym some more. Clym comes up to the mummers and offers them some drinks. Eustacia says no thanks. Eustacia is thrilled to speak to Clym, but she's also extremely anxious that her disguise will be discovered. "She had loved him partly because he was exceptional in this scene, partly because she had determined to love him, chiefly because she was in desperate need of loving somebody after wearying of Wildeve" . Eustacia continues to lurk about and spy on Clym. She overhears a conversation between him and Thomasin, who snuck downstairs to chat. Clym pesters her about joining the party but Thomasin insists that she is "ill" and won't come out. Eustacia realizes what this means and is embarrassed for herself and for Thomasin. Clym obviously doesn't know about the Wildeve scandal. Eustacia is starting to get annoyed at her disguise and doesn't like being dismissed as a boy at the party. She slips away from the crowd and Clym follows her. He says he thinks she's a woman in disguise. Eustacia admits it and says she did it because she wanted some excitement. They play twenty questions and Clym tries to find out who she is. But Eustacia won't tell him her name and he agrees to not tell anyone about her being in disguise. They part and Eustacia crashes back down to reality. She realizes that she doesn't know the Yeobrights and she's basically fallen for a stranger who has no way of getting to know her. She is also upset by the fact that Thomasin is still unmarried - she's worried that Thomasin will make a move on Clym now. Eustacia goes home and throws off her costume, and then goes to bed upset.

