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>

 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.

