Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated), page 234
CHAPTER 2
Thomasin Walks in a Green Place by the Roman Road
Clym saw little of Thomasin for several days after this; and when they met she was more silent than usual. At length he asked her what she was thinking of so intently.
“I am thoroughly perplexed,” she said candidly. “I cannot for my life think who it is that Diggory Venn is so much in love with. None of the girls at the Maypole were good enough for him, and yet she must have been there.”
Clym tried to imagine Venn’s choice for a moment; but ceasing to be interested in the question he went on again with his gardening.
No clearing up of the mystery was granted her for some time. But one afternoon Thomasin was upstairs getting ready for a walk, when she had occasion to come to the landing and call “Rachel.” Rachel was a girl about thirteen, who carried the baby out for airings; and she came upstairs at the call.
“Have you seen one of my last new gloves about the house, Rachel?” inquired Thomasin. “It is the fellow to this one.”
Rachel did not reply.
“Why don’t you answer?” said her mistress.
“I think it is lost, ma’am.”
“Lost? Who lost it? I have never worn them but once.”
Rachel appeared as one dreadfully troubled, and at last began to cry. “Please, ma’am, on the day of the Maypole I had none to wear, and I seed yours on the table, and I thought I would borrow ‘em. I did not mean to hurt ‘em at all, but one of them got lost. Somebody gave me some money to buy another pair for you, but I have not been able to go anywhere to get ‘em.”
“Who’s somebody?”
“Mr. Venn.”
“Did he know it was my glove?”
“Yes. I told him.”
Thomasin was so surprised by the explanation that she quite forgot to lecture the girl, who glided silently away. Thomasin did not move further than to turn her eyes upon the grass-plat where the Maypole had stood. She remained thinking, then said to herself that she would not go out that afternoon, but would work hard at the baby’s unfinished lovely plaid frock, cut on the cross in the newest fashion. How she managed to work hard, and yet do no more than she had done at the end of two hours, would have been a mystery to anyone not aware that the recent incident was of a kind likely to divert her industry from a manual to a mental channel.
Next day she went her ways as usual, and continued her custom of walking in the heath with no other companion than little Eustacia, now of the age when it is a matter of doubt with such characters whether they are intended to walk through the world on their hands or on their feet; so that they get into painful complications by trying both. It was very pleasant to Thomasin, when she had carried the child to some lonely place, to give her a little private practice on the green turf and shepherd’s-thyme, which formed a soft mat to fall headlong upon them when equilibrium was lost.
Once, when engaged in this system of training, and stooping to remove bits of stick, fern-stalks, and other such fragments from the child’s path, that the journey might not be brought to an untimely end by some insuperable barrier a quarter of an inch high, she was alarmed by discovering that a man on horseback was almost close beside her, the soft natural carpet having muffled the horse’s tread. The rider, who was Venn, waved his hat in the air and bowed gallantly.
“Diggory, give me my glove,” said Thomasin, whose manner it was under any circumstances to plunge into the midst of a subject which engrossed her.
Venn immediately dismounted, put his hand in his breastpocket, and handed the glove.
“Thank you. It was very good of you to take care of it.”
“It is very good of you to say so.”
“O no. I was quite glad to find you had it. Everybody gets so indifferent that I was surprised to know you thought of me.”
“If you had remembered what I was once you wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Ah, no,” she said quickly. “But men of your character are mostly so independent.”
“What is my character?” he asked.
“I don’t exactly know,” said Thomasin simply, “except it is to cover up your feelings under a practical manner, and only to show them when you are alone.”
“Ah, how do you know that?” said Venn strategically.
“Because,” said she, stopping to put the little girl, who had managed to get herself upside down, right end up again, “because I do.”
“You mustn’t judge by folks in general,” said Venn. “Still I don’t know much what feelings are nowadays. I have got so mixed up with business of one sort and t’other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapour like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is all my dream.”
“O Diggory, how wicked!” said Thomasin reproachfully, and looking at him in exact balance between taking his words seriously and judging them as said to tease her.
“Yes, ‘tis rather a rum course,” said Venn, in the bland tone of one comfortably resigned to sins he could no longer overcome.
“You, who used to be so nice!”
“Well, that’s an argument I rather like, because what a man has once been he may be again.” Thomasin blushed. “Except that it is rather harder now,” Venn continued.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you be richer than you were at that time.”
“O no — not much. I have made it nearly all over to the baby, as it was my duty to do, except just enough to live on.”
“I am rather glad of that,” said Venn softly, and regarding her from the corner of his eye, “for it makes it easier for us to be friendly.”
Thomasin blushed again, and, when a few more words had been said of a not unpleasing kind, Venn mounted his horse and rode on.
This conversation had passed in a hollow of the heath near the old Roman road, a place much frequented by Thomasin. And it might have been observed that she did not in future walk that way less often from having met Venn there now. Whether or not Venn abstained from riding thither because he had met Thomasin in the same place might easily have been guessed from her proceedings about two months later in the same year.
CHAPTER 3
The Serious Discourse of Clym with His Cousin
Throughout this period Yeobright had more or less pondered on his duty to his cousin Thomasin. He could not help feeling that it would be a pitiful waste of sweet material if the tender-natured thing should be doomed from this early stage of her life onwards to dribble away her winsome qualities on lonely gorse and fern. But he felt this as an economist merely, and not as a lover. His passion for Eustacia had been a sort of conserve of his whole life, and he had nothing more of that supreme quality left to bestow. So far the obvious thing was not to entertain any idea of marriage with Thomasin, even to oblige her.
But this was not all. Years ago there had been in his mother’s mind a great fancy about Thomasin and himself. It had not positively amounted to a desire, but it had always been a favourite dream. That they should be man and wife in good time, if the happiness of neither were endangered thereby, was the fancy in question. So that what course save one was there now left for any son who reverenced his mother’s memory as Yeobright did? It is an unfortunate fact that any particular whim of parents, which might have been dispersed by half an hour’s conversation during their lives, becomes sublimated by their deaths into a fiat the most absolute, with such results to conscientious children as those parents, had they lived, would have been the first to decry.
Had only Yeobright’s own future been involved he would have proposed to Thomasin with a ready heart. He had nothing to lose by carrying out a dead mother’s hope. But he dreaded to contemplate Thomasin wedded to the mere corpse of a lover that he now felt himself to be. He had but three activities alive in him. One was his almost daily walk to the little graveyard wherein his mother lay, another, his just as frequent visits by night to the more distant enclosure which numbered his Eustacia among its dead; the third was self-preparation for a vocation which alone seemed likely to satisfy his cravings — that of an itinerant preacher of the eleventh commandment. It was difficult to believe that Thomasin would be cheered by a husband with such tendencies as these.
Yet he resolved to ask her, and let her decide for herself. It was even with a pleasant sense of doing his duty that he went downstairs to her one evening for this purpose, when the sun was printing on the valley the same long shadow of the housetop that he had seen lying there times out of number while his mother lived.
Thomasin was not in her room, and he found her in the front garden. “I have long been wanting, Thomasin,” he began, “to say something about a matter that concerns both our futures.”
“And you are going to say it now?” she remarked quickly, colouring as she met his gaze. “Do stop a minute, Clym, and let me speak first, for oddly enough, I have been wanting to say something to you.”
“By all means say on, Tamsie.”
“I suppose nobody can overhear us?” she went on, casting her eyes around and lowering her voice. “Well, first you will promise me this — that you won’t be angry and call me anything harsh if you disagree with what I propose?”
Yeobright promised, and she continued: “What I want is your advice, for you are my relation — I mean, a sort of guardian to me — aren’t you, Clym?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I am; a sort of guardian. In fact, I am, of course,” he said, altogether perplexed as to her drift.
“I am thinking of marrying,” she then observed blandly. “But I shall not marry unless you assure me that you approve of such a step. Why don’t you speak?”
“I was taken rather by surprise. But, nevertheless, I am very glad to hear such news. I shall approve, of course, dear Tamsie. Who can it be? I am quite at a loss to guess. No I am not — ’tis the old doctor! — not that I mean to call him old, for he is not very old after all. Ah — I noticed when he attended you last time!”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “‘Tis Mr. Venn.”
Clym’s face suddenly became grave.
“There, now, you don’t like him, and I wish I hadn’t mentioned him!” she exclaimed almost petulantly. “And I shouldn’t have done it, either, only he keeps on bothering me so till I don’t know what to do!”
Clym looked at the heath. “I like Venn well enough,” he answered at last. “He is a very honest and at the same time astute man. He is clever too, as is proved by his having got you to favour him. But really, Thomasin, he is not quite — ”
“Gentleman enough for me? That is just what I feel. I am sorry now that I asked you, and I won’t think any more of him. At the same time I must marry him if I marry anybody — that I WILL say!”
“I don’t see that,” said Clym, carefully concealing every clue to his own interrupted intention, which she plainly had not guessed. “You might marry a professional man, or somebody of that sort, by going into the town to live and forming acquaintances there.”
“I am not fit for town life — so very rural and silly as I always have been. Do not you yourself notice my countrified ways?”
“Well, when I came home from Paris I did, a little; but I don’t now.”
“That’s because you have got countrified too. O, I couldn’t live in a street for the world! Egdon is a ridiculous old place; but I have got used to it, and I couldn’t be happy anywhere else at all.”
“Neither could I,” said Clym.
“Then how could you say that I should marry some town man? I am sure, say what you will, that I must marry Diggory, if I marry at all. He has been kinder to me than anybody else, and has helped me in many ways that I don’t know of!” Thomasin almost pouted now.
“Yes, he has,” said Clym in a neutral tone. “Well, I wish with all my heart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget what my mother thought on that matter, and it goes rather against me not to respect her opinion. There is too much reason why we should do the little we can to respect it now.”
“Very well, then,” sighed Thomasin. “I will say no more.”
“But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think.”
“O no — I don’t want to be rebellious in that way,” she said sadly. “I had no business to think of him — I ought to have thought of my family. What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!” Her lips trembled, and she turned away to hide a tear.
Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in a measure relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question in relation to himself was shelved. Through several succeeding days he saw her at different times from the window of his room moping disconsolately about the garden. He was half angry with her for choosing Venn; then he was grieved at having put himself in the way of Venn’s happiness, who was, after all, as honest and persevering a young fellow as any on Egdon, since he had turned over a new leaf. In short, Clym did not know what to do.
When next they met she said abruptly, “He is much more respectable now than he was then!”
“Who? O yes — Diggory Venn.”
“Aunt only objected because he was a reddleman.”
“Well, Thomasin, perhaps I don’t know all the particulars of my mother’s wish. So you had better use your own discretion.”
“You will always feel that I slighted your mother’s memory.”
“No, I will not. I shall think you are convinced that, had she seen Diggory in his present position, she would have considered him a fitting husband for you. Now, that’s my real feeling. Don’t consult me any more, but do as you like, Thomasin. I shall be content.”
It is to be supposed that Thomasin was convinced; for a few days after this, when Clym strayed into a part of the heath that he had not lately visited, Humphrey, who was at work there, said to him, “I am glad to see that Mrs. Wildeve and Venn have made it up again, seemingly.”
“Have they?” said Clym abstractedly.
“Yes; and he do contrive to stumble upon her whenever she walks out on fine days with the chiel. But, Mr. Yeobright, I can’t help feeling that your cousin ought to have married you. ‘Tis a pity to make two chimleycorners where there need be only one. You could get her away from him now, ‘tis my belief, if you were only to set about it.”
“How can I have the conscience to marry after having driven two women to their deaths? Don’t think such a thing, Humphrey. After my experience I should consider it too much of a burlesque to go to church and take a wife. In the words of Job, ‘I have made a covenant with mine eyes; when then should I think upon a maid?’“
“No, Mr. Clym, don’t fancy that about driving two women to their deaths. You shouldn’t say it.”
“Well, we’ll leave that out,” said Yeobright. “But anyhow God has set a mark upon me which wouldn’t look well in a love-making scene. I have two ideas in my head, and no others. I am going to keep a night-school; and I am going to turn preacher. What have you got to say to that, Humphrey?”
“I’ll come and hear ‘ee with all my heart.”
“Thanks. ‘Tis all I wish.”
As Clym descended into the valley Thomasin came down by the other path, and met him at the gate. “What do you think I have to tell you, Clym?” she said, looking archly over her shoulder at him.
“I can guess,” he replied.
She scrutinized his face. “Yes, you guess right. It is going to be after all. He thinks I may as well make up my mind, and I have got to think so too. It is to be on the twenty-fifth of next month, if you don’t object.”
“Do what you think right, dear. I am only too glad that you see your way clear to happiness again. My sex owes you every amends for the treatment you received in days gone by.”*
* The writer may state here that the original conception of
the story did not design a marriage between Thomasin and
Venn. He was to have retained his isolated and weird
character to the last, and to have disappeared mysteriously
from the heath, nobody knowing whither — Thomasin remaining a
widow. But certain circumstances of serial publication led
to a change of intent.
Readers can therefore choose between the endings, and those with an austere artistic code can assume the more consistent conclusion to be the true one.
CHAPTER 4
Cheerfulness Again Asserts Itself at Blooms-End, and Clym Finds His Vocation
Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven o’clock on the morning fixed for the wedding would have found that, while Yeobright’s house was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great activity came from the dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway. It was chiefly a noise of feet, briskly crunching hither and thither over the sanded floor within. One man only was visible outside, and he seemed to be later at an appointment than he had intended to be, for he hastened up to the door, lifted the latch, and walked in without ceremony.
The scene within was not quite the customary one. Standing about the room was the little knot of men who formed the chief part of the Egdon coterie, there being present Fairway himself, Grandfer Cantle, Humphrey, Christian, and one or two turf-cutters. It was a warm day, and the men were as a matter of course in their shirtsleeves, except Christian, who had always a nervous fear of parting with a scrap of his clothing when in anybody’s house but his own. Across the stout oak table in the middle of the room was thrown a mass of striped linen, which Grandfer Cantle held down on one side, and Humphrey on the other, while Fairway rubbed its surface with a yellow lump, his face being damp and creased with the effort of the labour.
“Waxing a bed-tick, souls?” said the newcomer.
“Yes, Sam,” said Grandfer Cantle, as a man too busy to waste words. “Shall I stretch this corner a shade tighter, Timothy?”
Fairway replied, and the waxing went on with unabated vigour. “‘Tis going to be a good bed, by the look o’t,” continued Sam, after an interval of silence. “Who may it be for?”
