还乡The Return Of The Native-第74部分

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　wide　awake；　tossing　to　one　side　and　to　the　other；　his　eyes　lit　by　a　hot　light；　as　if　the　fire　in　their　pupils　were　burning　up　their　substance。　
“Is　it　you；　Eustacia？”　he　said　as　she　sat　down。　
“Yes；　Clym。　　I　have　been　down　to　the　gate。　　The　moon　is　shining　beautifully；　and　there　is　not　a　leaf　stirring。”
“Shining；　is　it？　　What’s　the　moon　to　a　man　like　me？　　Let　it　shine—let　anything　be；　so　that　I　never　see　another　day！。。。Eustacia；　I　don’t　know　where　to　look—my　thoughts　go　through　me　like　swords。　　O；　if　any　man　wants　to　make　himself　immortal　by　painting　a　picture　of　wretchedness；　let　him　e　here！”
“Why　do　you　say　so？”
“I　cannot　help　feeling　that　I　did　my　best　to　kill　her。”
“No；　Clym。”
“Yes；　it　was　so；　it　is　useless　to　excuse　me！　My　conduct　to　her　was　too　hideous—I　made　no　advances；　and　she　could　not　bring　herself　to　forgive　me。　　Now　she　is　dead！　　If　I　had　only　shown　myself　willing　to　make　it　up　with　her　sooner；　and　we　had　been　friends；　and　then　she　had　died；　it　wouldn’t　be　so　hard　to　bear。　　But　I　never　went　near　her　house；　so　she　never　came　near　mine；　and　didn’t　know　how　wele　she　would　have　been—that’s　what　troubles　me。　　She　did　not　know　I　was　going　to　her　house　that　very　night；　for　she　was　too　insensible　to　understand　me。　　If　she　had　only　e　to　see　me！　I　longed　that　she　would。　　But　it　was　not　to　be。”
There　escaped　from　Eustacia　one　of　those　shivering　sighs　which　used　to　shake　her　like　a　pestilent　blast。　　She　had　not　yet　told。　
But　Yeobright　was　too　deeply　absorbed　in　the　ramblings　incidental　to　his　remorseful　state　to　notice　her。　　During　his　illness　he　had　been　continually　talking　thus。　　Despair　had　been　added　to　his　original　grief　by　the　unfortunate　disclosure　of　the　boy　who　had　received　the　last　words　of　Mrs。　Yeobright—words　too　bitterly　uttered　in　an　hour　of　misapprehension。　　Then　his　distress　had　overwhelmed　him；　and　he　longed　for　death　as　a　field　labourer　longs　for　the　shade。　　It　was　the　pitiful　sight　of　a　man　standing　in　the　very　focus　of　sorrow。　　He　continually　bewailed　his　tardy　journey　to　his　mother’s　house；　because　it　was　an　error　which　could　never　be　rectified；　and　insisted　that　he　must　have　been　horribly　perverted　by　some　fiend　not　to　have　thought　before　that　it　was　his　duty　to　go　to　her；　since　she　did　not　e　to　him。　　He　would　ask　Eustacia　to　agree　with　him　in　his　self…condemnation；　and　when　she；　seared　inwardly　by　a　secret　she　dared　not　tell；　declared　that　she　could　not　give　an　opinion；　he　would　say；　“That’s　because　you　didn’t　know　my　mother’s　nature。　　She　was　always　ready　to　forgive　if　asked　to　do　so；　but　I　seemed　to　her　to　be　as　an　obstinate　child；　and　that　made　her　unyielding。　　Yet　not　unyielding—she　was　proud　and　reserved；　no　more。。。。Yes；　I　can　understand　why　she　held　out　against　me　so　long。　　She　was　waiting　for　me。　　I　dare　say　she　said　a　hundred　times　in　her　sorrow；　‘What　a　return　he　makes　for　all　the　sacrifices　I　have　made　for　him！’　I　never　went　to　her！　When　I　set　out　to　visit　her　it　was　too　late。　　To　think　of　that　is　nearly　intolerable！”
Sometimes　his　condition　had　been　one　of　utter　remorse；　unsoftened　by　a　single　tear　of　pure　sorrow：　and　then　he　writhed　as　he　lay；　fevered　far　more　by　thought　than　by　physical　ills。　　“If　I　could　only　get　one　assurance　that　she　did　not　die　in　a　belief　that　I　was　resentful；”　he　said　one　day　when　in　this　mood；　“it　would　be　better　to　think　of　than　a　hope　of　heaven。　　But　that　I　cannot　do。”
“You　give　yourself　up　too　much　to　this　wearying　despair；”　said　Eustacia。　　“Other　men’s　mothers　have　died。”
“That　doesn’t　make　the　loss　of　mine　less。　　Yet　it　is　less　the　loss　than　the　circumstances　of　the　loss。　　I　sinned　against　her；　and　on　that　account　there　is　no　light　for　me。”
“She　sinned　against　you；　I　think。”
“No；　she　did　not。　　I　mitted　the　guilt；　and　may　the　whole　burden　be　upon　my　head！”
“I　think　you　might　consider　twice　before　you　say　that；”　Eustacia　replied。　　“Single　men　have；　no　doubt；　a　right　to　curse　themselves　as　much　as　they　please；　but　men　with　wives　involve　two　in　the　doom　they　pray　down。”
“I　am　in　too　sorry　a　state　to　understand　what　you　are　refining　on；”　said　the　wretched　man。　　“Day　and　night　shout　at　me；　‘You　have　helped　to　kill　her。’　But　in　loathing　myself　I　may；　I　own；　be　unjust　to　you；　my　poor　wife。　　Forgive　me　for　it；　Eustacia；　for　I　scarcely　know　what　I　do。”
Eustacia　was　always　anxious　to　avoid　the　sight　of　her　husband　in　such　a　state　as　this；　which　had　bee　as　dreadful　to　her　as　the　trial　scene　was　to　Judas　Iscariot。　　It　brought　before　her　eyes　the　spectre　of　a　worn…out　woman　knocking　at　a　door　which　she　would　not　open；　and　she　shrank　from　contemplating　it。　　Yet　it　was　better　for　Yeobright　himself　when　he　spoke　openly　of　his　sharp　regret；　for　in　silence　he　endured　infinitely　more；　and　would　sometimes　remain　so　long　in　a　tense；　brooding　mood；　consuming　himself　by　the　gnawing　of　his　thought；　that　it　was　imperatively　necessary　to　make　him　talk　aloud；　that　his　grief　might　in　some　degree　expend　itself　in　the　effort。
Eustacia　had　not　been　long　indoors　after　her　look　at　the　moonlight　when　a　soft　footstep　came　up　to　the　house；　and　Thomasin　was　announced　by　the　woman　downstairs。　
“Ah；　Thomasin！　Thank　you　for　ing　tonight；”　said　Clym　when　she　entered　the　room。　　“Here　am　I；　you　see。　　Such　a　wretched　spectacle　am　I；　that　I　shrink　from　being　seen　by　a　single　friend；　and　almost　from　you。”
“You　must　not　shrink　from　me；　dear　Clym；”　said　Thomasin　earnestly；　in　that　sweet　voice　of　hers　which　came　to　a　sufferer　like　fresh　air　into　a　Black　Hole。　　“Nothing　in　you　can　ever　shock　me　or　drive　me　away。　
I　have　been　here　before；　but　you　don’t　remember　it。”
“Yes；　I　do；　I　am　not　delirious；　Thomasin；　nor　have　I　been　so　at　all。　　Don’t　you　believe　that　if　they　say　so。　　I　am　only　in　great　misery　at　what　I　have　done；　and　that；　with　the　weakness；　makes　me　seem　mad。　　But　it　has　not　upset　my　reason。　　Do　you　think　I　should　remember　all　about　my　mother’s　death　if　I　were　out　of　my　mind？　　No　such　good　luck。　　Two　months　and　a　half；　Thomasin；　the　last　of　her　life；　did　my　poor　mother　live　alone；　distracted　and　mourning　because　of　me；　yet　she　was　unvisited　by　me；　though　I　was　living　only　six　miles　off。　　Two　months　and　a　half—seventy…five　days　did　the　sun　rise　and　set　upon　her　in　that　deserted　state　which　a　dog　didn’t　deserve！　Poor　people　who　had　nothing　in　mon　with　her　would　have　cared　for　her；　and　visited　her　had　they　known　her　sickness　and　loneliness；　but　I；　who　should　have　been　all　to　her；　stayed　away　like　a　cur。　　If　there　is　any　justice　in　God　let　Him　kill　me　now。　
He　has　nearly　blinded　me；　but　that　is　not　enough。　　If　He　would　only　strike　me　with　more　pain　I　would　believe　in　Him　forever！”
“Hush；　hush！　O；　pray；　Clym；　don’t；　don’t　say　it！”　implored　Thomasin；　affrighted　into　sobs　and　tears；　while　Eustacia；　at　the　other　side　of　the　room；　though　her　pale　face　remained　calm；　writhed　in　her　chair。　　Clym　went　on　without　heeding　his　cousin。　
“But　I　am　not　worth　receiving　further　proof　even　of　Heaven’s　reprobation。　　Do　you　think；　Thomasin；　that　she　knew　me—that　she　did　not　die　in　that　horrid　mistaken　notion　about　my　not　forgiving　her；　which　I　can’t　tell　you　how　she　acquired？　　If　you　could　only　assure　me　of　that！　Do　you　think　so；　Eustacia？　　Do　speak　to　me。”
“I　think　I　can　assure　you　that　she　knew　better　at　last；”　said　Thomasin。　　The　pallid　Eustacia　said　nothing。　
“Why　didn’t　she　e　to　my　house？　　I　would　have　taken　her　in　and　showed　her　how　I　loved　her　in　spite　of　all。　　But　she　never　came；　and　I　didn’t　go　to　her；　and　she　died　on　the　heath　like　an　animal　kicked　out；　nobody　to　help　her　till　it　was　too　late。　　If　you　could　have　seen　her；　Thomasin；　as　I　saw　her—a　poor　dying　woman；　lying　in　the　dark　upon　the　bare　ground；　moaning；　nobody　near；　believing　she　was　utterly　deserted　by　all　the　world；　it　would　have　moved　you　to　anguish；　it　would　have　moved　a　brute。　　And　this　poor　woman　my　mother！　No　wonder　she　said　to　the　child；　‘You　have　seen　a　broken…hearted　woman。’　What　a　state　she　must　have　been　brought　to；　to　say　that！　and　who　can　have　done　it　but　I？　　It　is　too　dreadful　to　think　of；　and　I　wish　I　could　be　punished　more　heavily　than　I　am。　　How　long　was　I　what　they　called　out　of　my　senses？”
“A　week；　I　think。”
“And　then　I　beca