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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

"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.

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.

The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy
General Fiction
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