Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers
While the effigy1 of Eustacia was melting to nothing, and the fair woman herself was standing2 on Rainbarrow, her soul in an abyss of desolation seldom plumbed3 by one so young, Yeobright sat lonely at Blooms-End. He had fulfilled his word to Thomasin by sending off Fairway with the letter to his wife, and now waited with increased impatience4 for some sound or signal of her return. Were Eustacia still at Mistover the very least he expected was that she would send him back a reply tonight by the same hand; though, to leave all to her inclination5, he had cautioned Fairway not to ask for an answer. If one were handed to him he was to bring it immediately; if not, he was to go straight home without troubling to come round to Blooms-End again that night.
But secretly Clym had a more pleasing hope. Eustacia might possibly decline to use her pen--it was rather her way to work silently--and surprise him by appearing at his door. How fully6 her mind was made up to do otherwise he did not know.
To Clym's regret it began to rain and blow hard as the evening advanced. The wind rasped and scraped at the corners of the house, and filliped the eavesdroppings like peas against the panes7. He walked restlessly about the untenanted rooms, stopping strange noises in windows and doors by jamming splinters of wood into the casements8 and crevices9, and pressing together the leadwork of the quarries10 where it had become loosened from the glass. It was one of those nights when cracks in the walls of old churches widen, when ancient stains on the ceilings of decayed manor11 houses are renewed and enlarged from the size of a man's hand to an area of many feet. The little gate in the palings before his dwelling12 continually opened and clicked together again, but when he looked out eagerly nobody was there; it was as if invisible shapes of the dead were passing in on their way to visit him.
Between ten and eleven o'clock, finding that neither Fairway nor anybody else came to him, he retired13 to rest, and despite his anxieties soon fell asleep. His sleep, however, was not very sound, by reason of the expectancy14 he had given way to, and he was easily awakened15 by a knocking which began at the door about an hour after. Clym arose and looked out of the window. Rain was still falling heavily, the whole expanse of heath before him emitting a subdued16 hiss17 under the downpour. It was too dark to see anything at all.
"Who's there?" he cried.
Light footsteps shifted their position in the porch, and he could just distinguish in a plaintive18 female voice the words, "O Clym, come down and let me in!"
He flushed hot with agitation19. "Surely it is Eustacia!" he murmured. If so, she had indeed come to him unawares.
He hastily got a light, dressed himself, and went down. On his flinging open the door the rays of the candle fell upon a woman closely wrapped up, who at once came forward.
"Thomasin!" he exclaimed in an indescribable tone of disappointment. "It is Thomasin, and on such a night as this! O, where is Eustacia?"
Thomasin it was, wet, frightened, and panting.
"Eustacia? I don't know, Clym; but I can think," she said with much perturbation. "Let me come in and rest--I will explain this. There is a great trouble brewing--my husband and Eustacia!"
"What, what?"
"I think my husband is going to leave me or do something dreadful--I don't know what--Clym, will you go and see? I have nobody to help me but you; Eustacia has not yet come home?"
"No."
She went on breathlessly: "Then they are going to run off together! He came indoors tonight about eight o'clock and said in an off-hand way, 'Tamsie, I have just found that I must go a journey.' 'When?' I said. 'Tonight,' he said. 'Where?' I asked him. 'I cannot tell you at present,' he said; 'I shall be back again tomorrow.' He then went and busied himself in looking up his things, and took no notice of me at all. I expected to see him start, but he did not, and then it came to be ten o'clock, when he said, 'You had better go to bed.' I didn't know what to do, and I went to bed. I believe he thought I fell asleep, for half an hour after that he came up and unlocked the oak chest we keep money in when we have much in the house and took out a roll of something which I believe was banknotes, though I was not aware that he had 'em there. These he must have got from the bank when he went there the other day. What does he want banknotes for, if he is only going off for a day? When he had gone down I thought of Eustacia, and how he had met her the night before--I know he did meet her, Clym, for I followed him part of the way; but I did not like to tell you when you called, and so make you think ill of him, as I did not think it was so serious. Then I could not stay in bed; I got up and dressed myself, and when I heard him out in the stable I thought I would come and tell you. So I came downstairs without any noise and slipped out."
"Then he was not absolutely gone when you left?"
"No. Will you, dear Cousin Clym, go and try to persuade him not to go? He takes no notice of what I say, and puts me off with the story of his going on a journey, and will be home tomorrow, and all that; but I don't believe it. I think you could influence him."
"I'll go," said Clym. "O, Eustacia!"
Thomasin carried in her arms a large bundle; and having by this time seated herself she began to unroll it, when a baby appeared as the kernel20 to the husks--dry, warm, and unconscious of travel or rough weather. Thomasin briefly21 kissed the baby, and then found time to begin crying as she said, "I brought baby, for I was afraid what might happen to her. I suppose it will be her death, but I couldn't leave her with Rachel!"
Clym hastily put together the logs on the hearth22, raked abroad the embers, which were scarcely yet extinct, and blew up a flame with the bellows23.
"Dry yourself," he said. "I'll go and get some more wood."
"No, no--don't stay for that. I'll make up the fire. Will you go at once--please will you?"
Yeobright ran upstairs to finish dressing24 himself. While he was gone another rapping came to the door. This time there was no delusion25 that it might be Eustacia's--the footsteps just preceding it had been heavy and slow. Yeobright thinking it might possibly be Fairway with a note in answer, descended26 again and opened the door.
"Captain Vye?" he said to a dripping figure.
"Is my granddaughter here?" said the captain.
"No."
"Then where is she?".
"I don't know."
"But you ought to know--you are her husband."
"Only in name apparently," said Clym with rising excitement. "I believe she means to elope tonight with Wildeve. I am just going to look to it."
"Well, she has left my house; she left about half an hour ago. Who's sitting there?"
"My cousin Thomasin."
The captain bowed in a preoccupied27 way to her. "I only hope it is no worse than an elopement," he said.
"Worse? What's worse than the worst a wife can do?"
"Well, I have been told a strange tale. Before starting in search of her I called up Charley, my stable lad. I missed my pistols the other day."
"Pistols?"
"He said at the time that he took them down to clean. He has now owned that he took them because he saw Eustacia looking curiously28 at them; and she afterwards owned to him that she was thinking of taking her life, but bound him to secrecy29, and promised never to think of such a thing again. I hardly suppose she will ever have bravado30 enough to use one of them; but it shows what has been lurking31 in her mind; and people who think of that sort of thing once think of it again."
"Where are the pistols?"
"Safely locked up. O no, she won't touch them again. But there are more ways of letting out life than through a bullet-hole. What did you quarrel about so bitterly with her to drive her to all this? You must have treated her badly indeed. Well, I was always against the marriage, and I was right."
"Are you going with me?" said Yeobright, paying no attention to the captain's latter remark. "If so I can tell you what we quarrelled about as we walk along."
"Where to?"
"To Wildeve's--that was her destination, depend upon it."
Thomasin here broke in, still weeping: "He said he was only going on a sudden short journey; but if so why did he want so much money? O, Clym, what do you think will happen? I am afraid that you, my poor baby, will soon have no father left to you!"
"I am off now," said Yeobright, stepping into the porch.
"I would fain go with 'ee," said the old man doubtfully. "But I begin to be afraid that my legs will hardly carry me there such a night as this. I am not so young as I was. If they are interrupted in their flight she will be sure to come back to me, and I ought to be at the house to receive her. But be it as 'twill I can't walk to the Quiet Woman, and that's an end on't. I'll go straight home."
"It will perhaps be best," said Clym. "Thomasin, dry yourself, and be as comfortable as you can."
With this he closed the door upon her, and left the house in company with Captain Vye, who parted from him outside the gate, taking the middle path, which led to Mistover. Clym crossed by the right-hand track towards the inn.
Thomasin, being left alone, took off some of her wet garments, carried the baby upstairs to Clym's bed, and then came down to the sitting-room32 again, where she made a larger fire, and began drying herself. The fire soon flared33 up the chimney, giving the room an appearance of comfort that was doubled by contrast with the drumming of the storm without, which snapped at the windowpanes and breathed into the chimney strange low utterances34 that seemed to be the prologue35 to some tragedy.
But the least part of Thomasin was in the house, for her heart being at ease about the little girl upstairs she was mentally following Clym on his journey. Having indulged in this imaginary peregrination36 for some considerable interval37, she became impressed with a sense of the intolerable slowness of time. But she sat on. The moment then came when she could scarcely sit longer, and it was like a satire38 on her patience to remember that Clym could hardly have reached the inn as yet. At last she went to the baby's bedside. The child was sleeping soundly; but her imagination of possibly disastrous39 events at her home, the predominance within her of the unseen over the seen, agitated40 her beyond endurance. She could not refrain from going down and opening the door. The rain still continued, the candlelight falling upon the nearest drops and making glistening41 darts42 of them as they descended across the throng43 of invisible ones behind. To plunge44 into that medium was to plunge into water slightly diluted45 with air. But the difficulty of returning to her house at this moment made her all the more desirous of doing so--anything was better than suspense46. "I have come here well enough," she said, "and why shouldn't I go back again? It is a mistake for me to be away."
She hastily fetched the infant, wrapped it up, cloaked herself as before, and shoveling the ashes over the fire, to prevent accidents, went into the open air. Pausing first to put the door key in its old place behind the shutter47, she resolutely48 turned her face to the confronting pile of firmamental49 darkness beyond the palings, and stepped into its midst. But Thomasin's imagination being so actively50 engaged elsewhere, the night and the weather had for her no terror beyond that of their actual discomfort51 and difficulty.
She was soon ascending52 Blooms-End valley and traversing the undulations on the side of the hill. The noise of the wind over the heath was shrill53, and as if it whistled for joy at finding a night so congenial as this. Sometimes the path led her to hollows between thickets54 of tall and dripping bracken, dead, though not yet prostrate55, which enclosed her like a pool. When they were more than usually tall she lifted the baby to the top of her head, that it might be out of the reach of their drenching56 fronds57. On higher ground, where the wind was brisk and sustained, the rain flew in a level flight without sensible descent, so that it was beyond all power to imagine the remoteness of the point at which it left the bosoms58 of the clouds. Here self-defence was impossible, and individual drops stuck into her like the arrows into Saint Sebastian. She was enabled to avoid puddles59 by the nebulous paleness which signified their presence, though beside anything less dark than the heath they themselves would have appeared as blackness.
Yet in spite of all this Thomasin was not sorry that she had started. To her there were not, as to Eustacia, demons60 in the air, and malice61 in every bush and bough62. The drops which lashed63 her face were not scorpions64, but prosy rain; Egdon in the mass was no monster whatever, but impersonal65 open ground. Her fears of the place were rational, her dislikes of its worst moods reasonable. At this time it was in her view a windy, wet place, in which a person might experience much discomfort, lose the path without care, and possibly catch cold.
If the path is well known the difficulty at such times of keeping therein is not altogether great, from its familiar feel to the feet; but once lost it is irrecoverable. Owing to her baby, who somewhat impeded66 Thomasin's view forward and distracted her mind, she did at last lose the track. This mishap67 occurred when she was descending68 an open slope about two-thirds home. Instead of attempting, by wandering hither and thither69, the hopeless task of finding such a mere70 thread, she went straight on, trusting for guidance to her general knowledge of the contours, which was scarcely surpassed by Clym's or by that of the heath-croppers themselves.
At length Thomasin reached a hollow and began to discern through the rain a faint blotted71 radiance, which presently assumed the oblong form of an open door. She knew that no house stood hereabouts, and was soon aware of the nature of the door by its height above the ground.
"Why, it is Diggory Venn's van, surely!" she said.
A certain secluded72 spot near Rainbarrow was, she knew, often Venn's chosen centre when staying in this neighbourhood; and she guessed at once that she had stumbled upon this mysterious retreat. The question arose in her mind whether or not she should ask him to guide her into the path. In her anxiety to reach home she decided73 that she would appeal to him, notwithstanding the strangeness of appearing before his eyes at this place and season. But when, in pursuance of this resolve, Thomasin reached the van and looked in she found it to be untenanted; though there was no doubt that it was the reddleman's. The fire was burning in the stove, the lantern hung from the nail. Round the doorway74 the floor was merely sprinkled with rain, and not saturated75, which told her that the door had not long been opened.
While she stood uncertainly looking in Thomasin heard a footstep advancing from the darkness behind her, and turning, beheld76 the well-known form in corduroy, lurid77 from head to foot, the lantern beams falling upon him through an intervening gauze of raindrops.
"I thought you went down the slope," he said, without noticing her face. "How do you come back here again?"
"Diggory?" said Thomasin faintly.
"Who are you?" said Venn, still unperceiving. "And why were you crying so just now?"
"O, Diggory! don't you know me?" said she. "But of course you don't, wrapped up like this. What do you mean? I have not been crying here, and I have not been here before."
Venn then came nearer till he could see the illuminated78 side of her form.
"Mrs. Wildeve!" he exclaimed, starting. "What a time for us to meet! And the baby too! What dreadful thing can have brought you out on such a night as this?"
She could not immediately answer; and without asking her permission he hopped79 into his van, took her by the arm, and drew her up after him.
"What is it?" he continued when they stood within.
"I have lost my way coming from Blooms-End, and I am in a great hurry to get home. Please show me as quickly as you can! It is so silly of me not to know Egdon better, and I cannot think how I came to lose the path. Show me quickly, Diggory, please."
"Yes, of course. I will go with 'ee. But you came to me before this, Mrs. Wildeve?"
"I only came this minute."
"That's strange. I was lying down here asleep about five minutes ago, with the door shut to keep out the weather, when the brushing of a woman's clothes over the heath-bushes just outside woke me up, for I don't sleep heavy, and at the same time I heard a sobbing80 or crying from the same woman. I opened my door and held out my lantern, and just as far as the light would reach I saw a woman; she turned her head when the light sheened on her, and then hurried on downhill. I hung up the lantern, and was curious enough to pull on my things and dog her a few steps, but I could see nothing of her any more. That was where I had been when you came up; and when I saw you I thought you were the same one."
"Perhaps it was one of the heathfolk going home?"
"No, it couldn't be. 'Tis too late. The noise of her gown over the he'th was of a whistling sort that nothing but silk will make."
"It wasn't I, then. My dress is not silk, you see....Are we anywhere in a line between Mistover and the inn?"
"Well, yes; not far out."
"Ah, I wonder if it was she! Diggory, I must go at once!"
She jumped down from the van before he was aware, when Venn unhooked the lantern and leaped down after her. "I'll take the baby, ma'am," he said. "You must be tired out by the weight."
Thomasin hesitated a moment, and then delivered the baby into Venn's hands. "Don't squeeze her, Diggory," she said, "or hurt her little arm; and keep the cloak close over her like this, so that the rain may not drop in her face."
"I will," said Venn earnestly. "As if I could hurt anything belonging to you!"
"I only meant accidentally," said Thomasin.
"The baby is dry enough, but you are pretty wet," said the reddleman when, in closing the door of his cart to padlock it, he noticed on the floor a ring of water drops where her cloak had hung from her.
Thomasin followed him as he wound right and left to avoid the larger bushes, stopping occasionally and covering the lantern, while he looked over his shoulder to gain some idea of the position of Rainbarrow above them, which it was necessary to keep directly behind their backs to preserve a proper course.
"You are sure the rain does not fall upon baby?"
"Quite sure. May I ask how old he is, ma'am?"
"He!" said Thomasin reproachfully. "Anybody can see better than that in a moment. She is nearly two months old. How far is it now to the inn?"
"A little over a quarter of a mile."
"Will you walk a little faster?"
"I was afraid you could not keep up."
"I am very anxious to get there. Ah, there is a light from the window!"
"'Tis not from the window. That's a gig-lamp, to the best of my belief."
"O!" said Thomasin in despair. "I wish I had been there sooner--give me the baby, Diggory--you can go back now."
"I must go all the way," said Venn. "There is a quag between us and that light, and you will walk into it up to your neck unless I take you round."
"But the light is at the inn, and there is no quag in front of that."
"No, the light is below the inn some two or three hundred yards."
"Never mind," said Thomasin hurriedly. "Go towards the light, and not towards the inn."
"Yes," answered Venn, swerving81 round in obedience82; and, after a pause, "I wish you would tell me what this great trouble is. I think you have proved that I can be trusted."
"There are some things that cannot be--cannot be told to--" And then her heart rose into her throat, and she could say no more.
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effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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plumbed
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| v.经历( plumb的过去式和过去分词 )；探究；用铅垂线校正；用铅锤测量 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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peregrination
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| n.游历，旅行 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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firmamental
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| adj.天空的，苍天的 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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54
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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56
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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57
fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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58
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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72
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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80
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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81
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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82
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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