IV
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 hourswas miserably scant. Determined that there should be nothing in hisconduct towards his mother resembling sullenness, he had occasionallyspoken to her on passing matters, and would take no notice of thebrevity of her replies. With the same resolve to keep up a show ofconversation he said, about seven o'clock in the evening, "There's aneclipse of the moon tonight. I am going out to see it." And, puttingon 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 laidbare the white flints and glistening quartz sand, which made streaksupon the general shade. After standing awhile he stooped and felt theheather. It was dry, and he flung himself down upon the barrow, hisface towards the moon, which depicted a small image of herself in eachof 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 situationwhich, three months earlier, he could hardly have credited of himself.In returning to labour in this sequestered spot he had anticipatedan escape from the chafing of social necessities; yet behold theywere here also. More than ever he longed to be in some world wherepersonal ambition was not the only recognized form of progress--such,perhaps, as might have been the case at some time or other in thesilvery globe then shining upon him. His eye travelled over thelength and breadth of that distant country--over the Bay of Rainbows,the sombre Sea of Crises, the Ocean of Storms, the Lake of Dreams, thevast Walled Plains, and the wondrous Ring Mountains--till he almostfelt himself to be voyaging bodily through its wild scenes, standingon its hollow hills, traversing its deserts, descending its vales andold sea bottoms, or mounting to the edges of its craters.
While he watched the far-removed landscape a tawny stain grew intobeing on the lower verge: the eclipse had begun. This marked apreconcerted moment: for the remote celestial phenomenon had beenpressed into sublunary service as a lover's signal. Yeobright's mindflew back to earth at the sight; he arose, shook himself and listened.Minute after minute passed by, perhaps ten minutes passed, and theshadow on the moon perceptibly widened. He heard a rustling on hisleft hand, a cloaked figure with an upturned face appeared at the baseof the Barrow, and Clym descended. In a moment the figure was in hisarms, 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 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 theshadow 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 blindyourself to my absence. To me, who can do nothing, it has been likeliving under stagnant 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 notlove 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--Ido love you--past all compass and description. I love you tooppressiveness--I, who have never before felt more than a pleasantpassing fancy for any woman I have ever seen. Let me look right intoyour moonlit face and dwell on every line and curve in it! Only afew hair-breadths make the difference between this face and faces Ihave seen many times before I knew you; yet what a difference--thedifference between everything and nothing at all. One touch on thatmouth again! there, and there, and there. Your eyes seem heavy,Eustacia."
"No, it is my general way of looking. I think it arises from myfeeling 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 canensure the continuance of love. It will evaporate like a spirit, andso I 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 anotherman 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, 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 you tomeet me like this. Kiss me, and go away for ever. For ever--do youhear?--for ever!"
"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 youmisunderstand. I have an additional reason for seeing you tonightbesides love of you. For though, unlike you, I feel our affectionmay be eternal, I feel with you in this, that our present mode ofexistence 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 tolet you go. There is only one cure for this anxiety, dearest--youmust be my wife."
She started: then endeavoured to say calmly, "Cynics say that curesthe anxiety 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.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 continuedevasively.
"I hate talking of Paris! Well, I remember one sunny room in theLouvre which would make a fitting place for you to live in--theGalerie d'Apollon. Its windows are mainly east; and in the earlymorning, when the sun is bright, the whole apartment is in a perfectblaze of splendour. The rays bristle and dart from the encrustationsof gilding to the magnificent inlaid coffers, from the coffers tothe gold and silver plate, from the plate to the jewels and preciousstones, from these to the enamels, till there is a perfect network oflight which quite 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 someEnglish 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 historicalromance."
r /> 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 withtheir 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 mypromise, without making 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 isnot 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; andthen it will be all right for me; and so I promise to be yours forever 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 makea 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, 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, andshows its shape as if it were cut out in gold. That means that youshould be doing 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,far from that, I could live and die in a hermitage here, with properwork to do."
There was that in his tone which implied distrust of his position as asolicitous lover, a doubt if he were acting fairly towards one whosetastes touched his own only at rare and infrequent points. She sawhis meaning, and whispered, in a low, full accent of eager assurance"Don't mistake me, Clym: though I should like Paris, I love you foryourself alone. To be your wife and live in Paris would be heaven tome; but I would rather live with you in a hermitage here than not beyours 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 withyou towards your house."
"But must you go home yet?" she asked. "Yes, the sand has nearlyslipped 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 notpress you any more. You will go home and sleep well; I keep sighingin 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 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 sawan officer of the Hussars ride down the street at Budmouth, and thoughhe was a total stranger and never spoke to me, I loved him till Ithought I should really die of love--but I didn't die, and at last Ileft off caring for him. How terrible it would be if a time shouldcome when I could not love you, my Clym!"
"Please don't say such reckless things. When we see such a time athand 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 theywere near the house he said, "It is too late for me to see yourgrandfather tonight. Do you think he will object to it?"
"I will speak to him. I am so accustomed to be my own mistress thatit did not occur to me that we should have to ask him."
Then they lingeringly separated, and Clym descended towardsBlooms-End.
And as he walked further and further from the charmed atmosphere ofhis Olympian girl his face grew sad with a new sort of sadness. Aperception of the dilemma in which his love had placed him came backin full force. In spite of Eustacia's apparent willingness to waitthrough the period of an unpromising engagement, till he should beestablished in his new pursuit, he could not but perceive at momentsthat she loved him rather as a visitant from a gay world to which sherightly belonged than as a man with a purpose opposed to that recentpast of his which so interested her. Often at their meetings a word ora sigh escaped her. It meant that, though she made no conditions as tohis return to the French capital, this was what she secretly longedfor in the event of marriage; and it robbed him of many an otherwisepleasant hour. Along with that came the widening breach betweenhimself and his mother. Whenever any little occurrence had broughtinto more prominence than usual the disappointment that he was causingher it had sent him on lone and moody walks; or he was kept awakea great part of the night by the turmoil of spirit which such arecognition created. If Mrs. Yeobright could only have been led to seewhat a sound and worthy purpose this purpose of his was and how littleit was being affected by his devotions to Eustacia, how differentlywould she regard him!
Thus as his sight grew accustomed to the first blinding halokindled about him by love and beauty, Yeobright began to perceivewhat a strait he was in. Sometimes he wished that he had neverknown Eustacia, immediately to retract the wish as brutal. Threeantagonistic growths had to be kept alive: his mother's trust in him,his plan for becoming a teacher, and Eustacia's happiness. His fervidnature could not afford to relinquish one of these, though two of thethree were as many as he could hope to preserve. Though his love wasas chaste as that of Petrarch for his Laura, it had made fetters ofwhat previously was only a difficulty. A position which was nottoo simple when he stood wholehearted had become indescribablycomplicated by the addition of Eustacia. Just when his mother wasbeginning to tolerate one scheme he had introduced another stillbitterer than the first, and the combination was more than she couldbear.