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>
<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>

 Clym goes to Captain Vye's, saying he wants to help with the lost bucket. He really wants to meet Eustacia. He meets her, and after she suffers a slight injury assisting him in getting water from the well, he tries to get her to admit she is the young woman he met in mummer's costume at Mrs. Yeobright's party. She will not admit anything, and they disagree over what the heath means to them. Clym goes to Captain Vye's, saying he wants to help with the lost bucket. He really wants to meet Eustacia. He meets her, and after she suffers a slight injury assisting him in getting water from the well, he tries to get her to admit she is the young woman he met in mummer's costume at Mrs. Yeobright's party. She will not admit anything, and they disagree over what the heath means to them. At home the next day, Mrs. Yeobright expresses annoyance at Clym's meeting Eustacia. But he continues to do so for the next few weeks until he and his mother quarrel bitterly over both his new career and his interest in Eustacia. Mrs. Yeobright is sure that he would not persist in his desire to be a teacher if he had not met Eustacia. The next evening, Clym meets Eustacia on Rainbarrow, the signal for their tryst being the start of an eclipse of the moon. Urged on by his mother's criticism of Eustacia, he wants to marry the girl, but Eustacia will not commit herself, preferring that he tell her of Paris. Finally, she does agree to marry him, thinking he will soon forget his desire to be a schoolmaster and then return to Paris with her.

