1--Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery
One evening, about three weeks after the funeral of Mrs. Yeobright, whenthe silver face of the moon sent a bundle of beams directly upon thefloor of Clym's house at Alderworth, a woman came forth from within. Shereclined over the garden gate as if to refresh herself awhile. The palelunar touches which make beauties of hags lent divinity to this face,already beautiful.
She had not long been there when a man came up the road and with somehesitation said to her, How is he tonight, ma'am, if you please?
He is better, though still very unwell, Humphrey, replied Eustacia.
Is he light-headed, ma'am?
No. He is quite sensible now.
Do he rave about his mother just the same, poor fellow? continuedHumphrey.
Just as much, though not quite so wildly, she said in a low voice.
It was very unfortunate, ma'am, that the boy Johnny should ever ha'told him his mother's dying words, about her being broken-hearted andcast off by her son. 'Twas enough to upset any man alive.
Eustacia made no reply beyond that of a slight catch in her breath, asof one who fain would speak but could not; and Humphrey, declining herinvitation to come in, went away.
Eustacia turned, entered the house, and ascended to the front bedroom,where a shaded light was burning. In the bed lay Clym, pale, haggard,wide awake, tossing to one side and to the other, his eyes lit by a hotlight, as if the fire in their pupils were burning up their substance.
Is it you, Eustacia? he said as she sat down.
Yes, Clym. I have been down to the gate. The moon is shiningbeautifully, and there is not a leaf stirring.
Shining, is it? What's the moon to a man like me? Let it shine--letanything be, so that I never see another day!... Eustacia, I don't knowwhere to look--my thoughts go through me like swords. O, if any manwants to make himself immortal by painting a picture of wretchedness,let him come here!
Why do you say so?
I cannot help feeling that I did my best to kill her.
No, Clym.
Yes, it was so; it is useless to excuse me! My conduct to her was toohideous--I made no advances; and she could not bring herself to forgiveme. Now she is dead! If I had only shown myself willing to make it upwith her sooner, and we had been friends, and then she had died, itwouldn't be so hard to bear. But I never went near her house, soshe never came near mine, and didn't know how welcome she would havebeen--that's what troubles me. She did not know I was going to her housethat very night, for she was too insensible to understand me. If she hadonly come to see me! I longed that she would. But it was not to be.
There escaped from Eustacia one of those shivering sighs which used toshake her like a pestilent blast. She had not yet told.
But Yeobright was too deeply absorbed in the ramblings incidental tohis remorseful state to notice her. During his illness he had beencontinually talking thus. Despair had been added to his original griefby the unfortunate disclosure of the boy who had received the lastwords of Mrs. Yeobright--words too bitterly uttered in an hour ofmisapprehension. Then his distress had overwhelmed him, and he longedfor death as a field labourer longs for the shade. It was the pitifulsight of a man standing in the very focus of sorrow. He continuallybewailed his tardy journey to his mother's house, because it was anerror which could never be rectified, and insisted that he must havebeen horribly perverted by some fiend not to have thought before that itwas his duty to go to her, since she did not come to him. He wouldask Eustacia to agree with him in his self-condemnation and when she,seared inwardly by a secret she dared not tell, declared that she couldnot give an opinion, he would say, That's because you didn't know mymother's nature. She was always ready to forgive if asked to do so;but I seemed to her to be as an obstinate child, and that madeher unyielding. Yet not unyielding--she was proud and reserved, nomore.... Yes, I can understand why she held out against me so long. Shewas waiting for me. I dare say she said a hundred times in her sorrow,'What a return he makes for all the sacrifices I have made for him!' Inever went to her! When I set out to visit her it was too late. To thinkof that is nearly intolerable!
Sometimes his condition had been one of utter remorse, unsoftened by asingle tear of pure sorrow: and then he writhed as he lay, feveredfar more by thought than by physical ills. If I could only get oneassurance that she did not die in a belief that I was resentful, hesaid one day when in this mood, it would be better to think of than ahope of heaven. But that I cannot do.
You give yourself up too much to this wearying despair, said Eustacia.Other men's mothers have died.
That doesn't make the loss of mine less. Yet it is less the loss thanthe circumstances of the loss. I sinned against her, and on that accountthere is no light for me.
She sinned against you, I think.
No, she did not. I committed the guilt; and may the whole burden beupon my head!
I think you might consider twice before you say that, Eustaciareplied. Single men have, no doubt, a right to curse themselves as muchas they please; but men with wives involve two in the doom they praydown.
I am in too sorry a state to understand what you are refining on, saidthe wretched man. Day and night shout at me, 'You have helped to killher.' But in loathing myself I may, I own, be unjust to you, my poorwife. Forgive me for it, Eustacia, for I scarcely know what I do.
Eustacia was always anxious to avoid the sight of her husband in sucha state as this, which had become as dreadful to her as the trial scenewas to Judas Iscariot. It brought before her eyes the spectre of aworn-out woman knocking at a door which she would not open; and sheshrank from contemplating it. Yet it was better for Yeobright himselfwhen he spoke openly of his sharp regret, for in silence he enduredinfinitely more, and would sometimes remain so long in a tense, broodingmood, consuming himself by the gnawing of his thought, that it wasimperatively necessary to make him talk aloud, that his grief might insome degree expend itself in the effort.
Eustacia had not been long indoors after her look at the moonlight whena soft footstep came up to the house, and Thomasin was announced by thewoman downstairs.
Ah, Thomasin! Thank you for coming tonight, said Clym when she enteredthe room. Here am I, you see. Such a wretched spectacle am I, that Ishrink from being seen by a single friend, and almost from you.
You must not shrink from me, dear Clym, said Thomasin earnestly, inthat sweet voice of hers which came to a sufferer like fresh air into aBlack Hole. Nothing in you can ever shock me or drive me away. I havebeen here before, but you don't remember it.
Yes, I do; I am not delirious, Thomasin, nor have I been so at all.Don't you believe that if they say so. I am only in great misery at whatI have done, and that, with the weakness, makes me seem mad. But ithas not upset my reason. Do you think I should remember all about mymother's death if I were out of my mind? No such good luck. Two monthsand a half, Thomasin, the last of her life, did my poor mother livealone, distracted and mourning because of me; yet she was unvisitedby me, though I was living only six miles off. Two months and ahalf--seventy-five days did the sun rise and set upon her in thatdeserted state which a dog didn't deserve! Poor people who had nothingin common with her would have cared for her, and visited her had theyknown her sickness and loneliness; but I, who should have been all toher, stayed away like a cur. If there is any justice in God let Him killme now. He has nearly blinded me, but that is not enough. If He wouldonly strike me with more pain I would believe in Him forever!
Hush, hush! O, pray, Clym, don't, don't say it! implored Thomasin,affrighted into sobs and tears; while Eustacia, at the other side ofthe room, though her pale face remained calm, writhed in her chair. Clymwent on without heeding his cousin.
But I am not worth receiving further proof even of Heaven'sreprobation. Do you think, Thomasin, that she knew me--that she did notdie in that horrid mistaken notion about my not forgiving her, which Ican't tell you how she acquired? If you could only assure me of that! Doyou think so, Eustacia? Do speak to me.
I think I can assure you that she knew better at last, said Thomasin.The pallid Eustacia said nothing.
Why didn't she come to my house? I would have taken her in and showedher how I loved her in spite of all. But she never came; and I didn't goto her, and she died on the heath like an animal kicked out, nobody tohelp her till it was too late. If you could have seen her, Thomasin, asI saw her--a poor dying woman, lying in the dark upon the bare ground,moaning, nobody near, believing she was utterly deserted by all theworld, it would have moved you to anguish, it would have moved a brute.And this poor woman my mother! No wonder she said to the child, 'Youhave seen a broken-hearted woman.' What a state she must have beenbrought to, to say that! and who can have done it but I? It is toodreadful to think of, and I wish I could be punished more heavily than Iam. How long was I what they called out of my senses?
A week, I think.
And then I became calm.
Yes, for four days.
And now I have left off being calm.
But try to be quiet--please do, and you will soon be strong. If youcould remove that impression from your mind--
Yes, yes, he said impatiently. But I don't want to get strong. What'sthe use of my getting well? It would be better for me if I die, and itwould certainly be better for Eustacia. Is Eustacia there?
Yes.
It would be better for you, Eustacia, if I were to die?
Don't press such a question, dear Clym.
Well, it really is but a shadowy supposition for unfortunately I amgoing to live. I feel myself getting better. Thomasin, how long areyou going to stay at the inn, now that all this money has come to yourhusband?
Another month or two, probably; until my illness is over. We cannot getoff till then. I think it will be a month or more.
Yes, yes. Of course. Ah, Cousin Tamsie, you will get over yourtrouble--one little month will take you through it, and bring somethingto console you; but I shall never get over mine, and no consolation willcome!
Clym, you are unjust to yourself. Depend upon it, Aunt thought kindlyof you. I know that, if she had lived, you would have been reconciledwith her.
But she didn't come to see me, though I asked her, before I married, ifshe would come. Had she come, or had I gone there, she would never havedied saying, 'I am a broken-hearted woman, cast off by my son.' My doorhas always been open to her--a welcome here has always awaited her. Butthat she never came to see.
You had better not talk any more now, Clym, said Eustacia faintly fromthe other part of the room, for the scene was growing intolerable toher.
Let me talk to you instead for the little time I shall be here,Thomasin said soothingly. Consider what a one-sided way you have oflooking at the matter, Clym. When she said that to the little boy youhad not found her and taken her into your arms; and it might have beenuttered in a moment of bitterness. It was rather like Aunt to say thingsin haste. She sometimes used to speak so to me. Though she did not comeI am convinced that she thought of coming to see you. Do you supposea man's mother could live two or three months without one forgivingthought? She forgave me; and why should she not have forgiven you?
You laboured to win her round; I did nothing. I, who was going to teachpeople the higher secrets of happiness, did not know how to keep out ofthat gross misery which the most untaught are wise enough to avoid.
How did you get here tonight, Thomasin? said Eustacia.
Damon set me down at the end of the lane. He has driven into East Egdonon business, and he will come and pick me up by-and-by.
Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had come,and was waiting outside with his horse and gig.
Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes, said Thomasin.
I will run down myself, said Eustacia.
She went down. Wildeve had alighted, and was standing before the horse'shead when Eustacia opened the door. He did not turn for a moment,thinking the comer Thomasin. Then he looked, startled ever so little,and said one word: Well?
I have not yet told him, she replied in a whisper.
Then don't do so till he is well--it will be fatal. You are illyourself.
I am wretched.... O Damon, she said, bursting into tears, I--I can'ttell you how unhappy I am! I can hardly bear this. I can tell nobody ofmy trouble--nobody knows of it but you.
Poor girl! said Wildeve, visibly affected at her distress, and atlast led on so far as to take her hand. It is hard, when you have donenothing to deserve it, that you should have got involved in such a webas this. You were not made for these sad scenes. I am to blame most. IfI could only have saved you from it all!
But, Damon, please pray tell me what I must do? To sit by him hourafter hour, and hear him reproach himself as being the cause of herdeath, and to know that I am the sinner, if any human being is at all,drives me into cold despair. I don't know what to do. Should I tell himor should I not tell him? I always am asking myself that. O, I want totell him; and yet I am afraid. If he finds it out he must surely kill me,for nothing else will be in proportion to his feelings now. 'Beware thefury of a patient man' sounds day by day in my ears as I watch him.
Well, wait till he is better, and trust to chance. And when you tell,you must only tell part--for his own sake.
Which part should I keep back?
Wildeve paused. That I was in the house at the time, he said in a lowtone.
Yes; it must be concealed, seeing what has been whispered. How mucheasier are hasty actions than speeches that will excuse them!
If he were only to die-- Wildeve murmured.
Do not think of it! I would not buy hope of immunity by so cowardlya desire even if I hated him. Now I am going up to him again. Thomasinbade me tell you she would be down in a few minutes. Good-bye.
She returned, and Thomasin soon appeared. When she was seated in the gigwith her husband, and the horse was turning to go off, Wildeve liftedhis eyes to the bedroom windows. Looking from one of them he coulddiscern a pale, tragic face watching him drive away. It was Eustacia's.