II. The People at Blooms-End Make Ready
All that afternoon the expected arrival of the subject of Eustacia’s ruminations created a bustle of preparation at Blooms-End. Thomasin had been persuaded by her aunt, and by an instinctive impulse of loyalty towards her cousin Clym, to bestir herself on his account with an alacrity unusual in her during these most sorrowful days of her life. At the time that Eustacia was listening to the rick-makers’ conversation on Clym’s return, Thomasin was climbing into a loft over her aunt’s fuelhouse, where the store-apples were kept, to search out the best and largest of them for the coming holiday-time.
The loft was lighted by a semicircular hole, through which the pigeons crept to their lodgings in the same high quarters of the premises; and from this hole the sun shone in a bright yellow patch upon the figure of the maiden as she knelt and plunged her naked arms into the soft brown fern, which, from its abundance, was used on Egdon in packing away stores of all kinds. The pigeons were flying about her head with the greatest unconcern, and the face of her aunt was just visible above the floor of the loft, lit by a few stray motes of light, as she stood halfway up the ladder, looking at a spot into which she was not climber enough to venture.
“Now a few russets, Tamsin. He used to like them almost as well as ribstones.”
Thomasin turned and rolled aside the fern from another nook, where more mellow fruit greeted her with its ripe smell. Before picking them out she stopped a moment.
“Dear Clym, I wonder how your face looks now?” she said, gazing abstractedly at the pigeon-hole, which admitted the sunlight so directly upon her brown hair and transparent tissues that it almost seemed to shine through her.
“If he could have been dear to you in another way,” said Mrs. Yeobright from the ladder, “this might have been a happy meeting.”
“Is there any use in saying what can do no good, Aunt?”
“Yes,” said her aunt, with some warmth. “To thoroughly fill the air with the past misfortune, so that other girls may take warning and keep clear of it.”
Thomasin lowered her face to the apples again. “I am a warning to others, just as thieves and drunkards and gamblers are,” she said in a low voice. “What a class to belong to! Do I really belong to them? ’Tis absurd! Yet why, Aunt, does everybody keep on making me think that I do, by the way they behave towards me? Why don’t people judge me by my acts? Now, look at me as I kneel here, picking up these apples—do I look like a lost woman?... I wish all good women were as good as I!” she added vehemently.
“Strangers don’t see you as I do,” said Mrs. Yeobright; “they judge from false report. Well, it is a silly job, and I am partly to blame.”
“How quickly a rash thing can be done!” replied the girl. Her lips were quivering, and tears so crowded themselves into her eyes that she could hardly distinguish apples from fern as she continued industriously searching to hide her weakness.
“As soon as you have finished getting the apples,” her aunt said, descending the ladder, “come down, and we’ll go for the holly. There is nobody on the heath this afternoon, and you need not fear being stared at. We must get some berries, or Clym will never believe in our preparations.”
Thomasin came down when the apples were collected, and together they went through the white palings to the heath beyond. The open hills were airy and clear, and the remote atmosphere appeared, as it often appears on a fine winter day, in distinct planes of illumination independently toned, the rays which lit the nearer tracts of landscape streaming visibly across those further off; a stratum of ensaffroned light was imposed on a stratum of deep blue, and behind these lay still remoter scenes wrapped in frigid grey.
They reached the place where the hollies grew, which was in a conical pit, so that the tops of the trees were not much above the general level of the ground. Thomasin stepped up into a fork of one of the bushes, as she had done under happier circumstances on many similar occasions, and with a small chopper that they had brought she began to lop off the heavily berried boughs.
“Don’t scratch your face,” said her aunt, who stood at the edge of the pit, regarding the girl as she held on amid the glistening green and scarlet masses of the tree. “Will you walk with me to meet him this evening?”
“I should like to. Else it would seem as if I had forgotten him,” said Thomasin, tossing out a bough. “Not that that would matter much; I belong to one man; nothing can alter that. And that man I must marry, for my pride’s sake.”
“I am afraid—” began Mrs. Yeobright.
“Ah, you think, ‘That weak girl—how is she going to get a man to marry her when she chooses?’ But let me tell you one thing, Aunt: Mr. Wildeve is not a profligate man, any more than I am an improper woman. He has an unfortunate manner, and doesn’t try to make people like him if they don’t wish to do it of their own accord.”
“Thomasin,” said Mrs. Yeobright quietly, fixing her eye upon her niece, “do you think you deceive me in your defence of Mr. Wildeve?”
“How do you mean?”
“I have long had a suspicion that your love for him has changed its colour since you have found him not to be the saint you thought him, and that you act a part to me.”
“He wished to marry me, and I wish to marry him.”
“Now, I put it to you: would you at this present moment agree to be his wife if that had not happened to entangle you with him?”
Thomasin looked into the tree and appeared much disturbed. “Aunt,” she said presently, “I have, I think, a right to refuse to answer that question.”
“Yes, you have.”
“You may think what you choose. I have never implied to you by word or deed that I have grown to think otherwise of him, and I never will. And I shall marry him.”
“Well, wait till he repeats his offer. I think he may do it, now that he knows—something I told him. I don’t for a moment dispute that it is the most proper thing for you to marry him. Much as I have objected to him in bygone days, I agree with you now, you may be sure. It is the only way out of a false position, and a very galling one.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That he was standing in the way of another lover of yours.”
“Aunt,” said Thomasin, with round eyes, “what do you mean?”
“Don’t be alarmed; it was my duty. I can say no more about it now, but when it is over I will tell you exactly what I said, and why I said it.”
Thomasin was perforce content.
“And you will keep the secret of my would-be marriage from Clym for the present?” she next asked.
“I have given my word to. But what is the use of it? He must soon know what has happened. A mere look at your face will show him that something is wrong.”
Thomasin turned and regarded her aunt from the tree. “Now, hearken to me,” she said, her delicate voice expanding into firmness by a force which was other than physical. “Tell him nothing. If he finds out that I am not worthy to be his cousin, let him. But, since he loved me once, we will not pain him by telling him my trouble too soon. The air is full of the story, I know; but gossips will not dare to speak of it to him for the first few days. His closeness to me is the very thing that will hinder the tale from reaching him early. If I am not made safe from sneers in a week or two I will tell him myself.”
The earnestness with which Thomasin spoke prevented further objections. Her aunt simply said, “Very well. He should by rights have been told at the time that the wedding was going to be. He will never forgive you for your secrecy.”
“Yes, he will, when he knows it was because I wished to spare him, and that I did not expect him home so soon. And you must not let me stand in the way of your Christmas party. Putting it off would only make matters worse.”
“Of course I shall not. I do not wish to show myself beaten before all Egdon, and the sport of a man like Wildeve. We have enough berries now, I think, and we had better take them home. By the time we have decked the house with this and hung up the mistletoe, we must think of starting to meet him.”
Thomasin came out of the tree, shook from her hair and dress the loose berries which had fallen thereon, and went down the hill with her aunt, each woman bearing half the gathered boughs. It was now nearly four o’clock, and the sunlight was leaving the vales. When the west grew red the two relatives came again from the house and plunged into the heath in a different direction from the first, towards a point in the distant highway along which the expected man was to return.