4--An Hour of Bliss and Many Hours of Sadness
The next day was gloomy enough at Blooms-End. Yeobright remained inhis study, sitting over the open books; but the work of those hours wasmiserably scant. Determined that there should be nothing in his conducttowards his mother resembling sullenness, he had occasionally spoken toher on passing matters, and would take no notice of the brevity of herreplies. With the same resolve to keep up a show of conversation hesaid, about seven o'clock in the evening, There's an eclipse of themoon 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, andYeobright climbed out of the valley until he stood in the full floodof her light. But even now he walked on, and his steps were in thedirection of Rainbarrow.
In half an hour he stood at the top. The sky was clear from verge toverge, and the moon flung her rays over the whole heath, but withoutsensibly lighting it, except where paths and water-courses had laid barethe white flints and glistening quartz sand, which made streaks upon thegeneral shade. After standing awhile he stooped and felt the heather. Itwas dry, and he flung himself down upon the barrow, his face towards themoon, 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 tohis purpose while really concealing it. It was a moral situation which,three months earlier, he could hardly have credited of himself. Inreturning to labour in this sequestered spot he had anticipated anescape from the chafing of social necessities; yet behold they werehere also. More than ever he longed to be in some world where personalambition was not the only recognized form of progress--such, perhaps, asmight have been the case at some time or other in the silvery globe thenshining upon him. His eye travelled over the length and breadth of thatdistant country--over the Bay of Rainbows, the sombre Sea of Crises,the Ocean of Storms, the Lake of Dreams, the vast Walled Plains, andthe wondrous Ring Mountains--till he almost felt himself to be voyagingbodily through its wild scenes, standing on its hollow hills, traversingits deserts, descending its vales and old sea bottoms, or mounting tothe edges of its craters.
While he watched the far-removed landscape a tawny stain grew into beingon the lower verge--the eclipse had begun. This marked a preconcertedmoment--for the remote celestial phenomenon had been pressed intosublunary service as a lover's signal. Yeobright's mind flew back toearth at the sight; he arose, shook himself and listened. Minute afterminute passed by, perhaps ten minutes passed, and the shadow on the moonperceptibly widened. He heard a rustling on his left hand, a cloakedfigure with an upturned face appeared at the base of the Barrow, andClym descended. In a moment the figure was in his arms, and his lipsupon 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 couldreach the level of their condition--words were as the rusty implementsof a by-gone barbarous epoch, and only to be occasionally tolerated.
I began to wonder why you did not come, said Yeobright, when she hadwithdrawn a little from his embrace.
You said ten minutes after the first mark of shade on the edge of themoon, 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 shadowon 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 yourselfto my absence. To me, who can do nothing, it has been like living understagnant water.
I would rather bear tediousness, dear, than have time made short bysuch means as have shortened mine.
In what way is that? You have been thinking you wished you did not loveme.
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 loveyou--past all compass and description. I love you to oppressiveness--I,who have never before felt more than a pleasant passing fancy for anywoman I have ever seen. Let me look right into your moonlit face anddwell on every line and curve in it! Only a few hairbreadths make thedifference between this face and faces I have seen many times before Iknew you; yet what a difference--the difference between everything andnothing at all. One touch on that mouth again! there, and there, andthere. Your eyes seem heavy, Eustacia.
No, it is my general way of looking. I think it arises from my feelingsometimes 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 canensure the continuance of love. It will evaporate like a spirit, and soI feel full of fears.
You need not.
Ah, you don't know. You have seen more than I, and have been intocities and among people that I have only heard of, and have lived moreyears than I; but yet I am older at this than you. I loved another manonce, 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, Ifear, end in this way: your mother will find out that you meet me, andshe 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 youto meet me like this. Kiss me, and go away forever. Forever--do youhear?--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 withyou 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. Imust have you always with me. This very evening I do not like to letyou go. There is only one cure for this anxiety, dearest--you must be mywife.
She started--then endeavoured to say calmly, Cynics say that cures theanxiety by curing the love.
But you must answer me. Shall I claim you some day--I don't mean atonce?
I must think, Eustacia murmured. At present speak of Paris to me. Isthere 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 theLouvre which would make a fitting place for you to live in--the Galeried'Apollon. Its windows are mainly east; and in the early morning,when the sun is bright, the whole apartment is in a perfect blaze ofsplendour. The rays bristle and dart from the encrustations of gildingto the magnificent inlaid coffers, from the coffers to the gold andsilver plate, from the plate to the jewels and precious stones, fromthese to the enamels, till there is a perfect network of light whichquite dazzles the eye. But now, about our marriage----
And Versailles--the King's Gallery is some such gorgeous room, is itnot?
Yes. But what's the use of talking of gorgeous rooms? By the way, theLittle Trianon would suit us beautifully to live in, and you mightwalk in the gardens in the moonlight and think you were in some Englishshrubbery; 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 aboutthere 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 theirmanners 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, puttingher head near his breast. If you'll agree I'll give my promise, withoutmaking you wait a minute longer.
How extraordinary that you and my mother should be of one mind aboutthis! said Yeobright. I have vowed not to go back, Eustacia. It is notthe 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 thenit will be all right for me; and so I promise to be yours for ever andever.
Clym brought her face towards his by a gentle pressure of the hand, andkissed her.
Ah! but you don't know what you have got in me, she said. Sometimes Ithink there is not that in Eustacia Vye which will make a goodhomespun 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, weknow. We are together now, and it is unknown how long we shall be so;the unknown always fills my mind with terrible possibilities, evenwhen I may reasonably expect it to be cheerful.... Clym, the eclipsedmoonlight shines upon your face with a strange foreign colour, and showsits shape as if it were cut out in gold. That means that you should bedoing better things than this.
You are ambitious, Eustacia--no, not exactly ambitious, luxurious. Iought to be of the same vein, to make you happy, I suppose. And yet, farfrom that, I could live and die in a hermitage here, with proper work todo.
There was that in his tone which implied distrust of his position asa solicitous lover, a doubt if he were acting fairly towards one whosetastes touched his own only at rare and infrequent points. She saw hismeaning, and whispered, in a low, full accent of eager assurance Don'tmistake me, Clym--though I should like Paris, I love you for yourselfalone. To be your wife and live in Paris would be heaven to me; but Iwould 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 candidconfession.
Spoken like a woman. And now I must soon leave you. I'll walk with youtowards your house.
But must you go home yet? she asked. Yes, the sand has nearly slippedaway, 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 anymore. You will go home and sleep well; I keep sighing in my sleep! Doyou 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 inevery sound. I wish I did not. It is too much what I feel. They saysuch love never lasts. But it must! And yet once, I remember, I saw anofficer of the Hussars ride down the street at Budmouth, and though hewas a total stranger and never spoke to me, I loved him till I thoughtI should really die of love--but I didn't die, and at last I left offcaring for him. How terrible it would be if a time should come when Icould not love you, my Clym!
Please don't say such reckless things. When we see such a time at handwe will say, 'I have outlived my faith and purpose,' and die. There, thehour has expired--now let us walk on.
Hand in hand they went along the path towards Mistover. When they werenear the house he said, It is too late for me to see your grandfathertonight. Do you think he will object to it?
I will speak to him. I am so accustomed to be my own mistress that itdid 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 hisOlympian girl his face grew sad with a new sort of sadness. A perceptionof 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 periodof an unpromising engagement, till he should be established in his newpursuit, he could not but perceive at moments that she loved him ratheras a visitant from a gay world to which she rightly belonged than asa man with a purpose opposed to that recent past of his which sointerested her. It meant that, though she made no conditions as to hisreturn to the French capital, this was what she secretly longed for inthe event of marriage; and it robbed him of many an otherwise pleasanthour. Along with that came the widening breach between himself and hismother. Whenever any little occurrence had brought into more prominencethan usual the disappointment that he was causing her it had sent him onlone and moody walks; or he was kept awake a great part of the nightby the turmoil of spirit which such a recognition created. If Mrs.Yeobright could only have been led to see what a sound and worthypurpose this purpose of his was and how little it was being affected byhis devotions to Eustacia, how differently would she regard him!
Thus as his sight grew accustomed to the first blinding halo kindledabout him by love and beauty, Yeobright began to perceive what astrait he was in. Sometimes he wished that he had never known Eustacia,immediately to retract the wish as brutal. Three antagonistic growthshad to be kept alive: his mother's trust in him, his plan for becoming ateacher, and Eustacia's happiness. His fervid nature could not affordto relinquish one of these, though two of the three were as many ashe could hope to preserve. Though his love was as chaste as that ofPetrarch for his Laura, it had made fetters of what previously wasonly a difficulty. A position which was not too simple when he stoodwhole-hearted had become indescribably complicated by the addition ofEustacia. Just when his mother was beginning to tolerate one schemehe had introduced another still bitterer than the first, and thecombination was more than she could bear.