“Now please go away. If I decide on this
escape I can only meet you once more unless—I
cannot go without you. Go—I cannot
bear it longer. Go—go!”
Wildeve slowly went up the steps and descended into
the darkness on the other side; and as he walked he
glanced back, till the bank blotted out her form from
his further view.
Thomasin Argues with Her Cousin, and He Writes a Letter
Yeobright was at this time at Blooms-End, hoping that
Eustacia would return to him. The removal of
furniture had been accomplished only that day, though
Clym had lived in the old house for more than a week.
He had spent the time in working about the premises,
sweeping leaves from the garden-paths, cutting dead
stalks from the flower-beds, and nailing up creepers
which had been displaced by the autumn winds.
He took no particular pleasure in these deeds, but
they formed a screen between himself and despair.
Moreover, it had become a religion with him to preserve
in good condition all that had lapsed from his mother’s
hands to his own.
During these operations he was constantly on the watch
for Eustacia. That there should be no mistake
about her knowing where to find him he had ordered
a notice board to be affixed to the garden gate at
Alderworth, signifying in white letters whither he
had removed. When a leaf floated to the earth
he turned his head, thinking it might be her footfall.
A bird searching for worms in the mould of the flower-beds
sounded like her hand on the latch of the gate; and
at dusk, when soft, strange ventriloquisms came from
holes in the ground, hollow stalks, curled dead leaves,
and other crannies wherein breezes, worms, and insects
can work their will, he fancied that they were Eustacia,
standing without and breathing wishes of reconciliation.
Up to this hour he had persevered in his resolve not
to invite her back. At the same time the severity
with which he had treated her lulled the sharpness
of his regret for his mother, and awoke some of his
old solicitude for his mother’s supplanter.
Harsh feelings produce harsh usage, and this by reaction
quenches the sentiments that gave it birth. The
more he reflected the more he softened. But to
look upon his wife as innocence in distress was impossible,
though he could ask himself whether he had given her
quite time enough—if he had not come a
little too suddenly upon her on that sombre morning.
Now that the first flush of his anger had paled he
was disinclined to ascribe to her more than an indiscreet
friendship with Wildeve, for there had not appeared
in her manner the signs of dishonour. And this
once admitted, an absolutely dark interpretation of
her act towards his mother was no longer forced upon
him.
On the evening of the fifth November his thoughts
of Eustacia were intense. Echoes from those past
times when they had exchanged tender words all the
day long came like the diffused murmur of a seashore
left miles behind. “Surely,” he said,
“she might have brought herself to communicate
with me before now, and confess honestly what Wildeve
was to her.”
