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The boy started on his errand； and soon came back with the water； such as it was。 Mrs。 Yeobright attempted to drink； but it was so warm as to give her nausea； and she threw it away。 Afterwards she still remained sitting； with her eyes closed。
The boy waited； played near her； caught several of the little brown butterflies which abounded； and then said as he waited again； “I like going on better than biding still。 Will you soon start again？”
“I don’t know。”
“I wish I might go on by myself；” he resumed； fearing； apparently； that he was to be pressed into some unpleasant service。 “Do you want me any more； please？”
Mrs。 Yeobright made no reply。
“What shall I tell Mother？” the boy continued。
“Tell her you have seen a broken…hearted woman cast off by her son。”
Before quite leaving her he threw upon her face a wistful glance； as if he had misgivings on the generosity of forsaking her thus。 He gazed into her face in a vague； wondering manner； like that of one examining some strange old manuscript the key to whose characters is undiscoverable。 He was not so young as to be absolutely without a sense that sympathy was demanded； he was not old enough to be free from the terror felt in childhood at beholding misery in adult quarters hither…to deemed impregnable； and whether she were in a position to cause trouble or to suffer from it； whether she and her affliction were something to pity or something to fear； it was beyond him to decide。 He lowered his eyes and went on without another word。 Before he had gone half a mile he had forgotten all about her； except that she was a woman who had sat down to rest。
Mrs。 Yeobright’s exertions； physical and emotional； had well…nigh prostrated her； but she continued to creep along in short stages with long breaks between。 The sun had now got far to the west of south and stood directly in her face； like some merciless incendiary； brand in hand； waiting to consume her。 With the departure of the boy all visible animation disappeared from the landscape； though the intermittent husky notes of the male grasshoppers from every tuft of furze were enough to show that amid the prostration of the larger animal species an unseen insect world was busy in all the fullness of life。
In two hours she reached a slope about three…fourths the whole distance from Alderworth to her own home； where a little patch of shepherd’s…thyme intruded upon the path； and she sat down upon the perfumed mat it formed there。 In front of her a colony of ants had established a thoroughfare across the way； where they toiled a never…ending and heavy…laden throng。 To look down upon them was like observing a city street from the top of a tower。 She remembered that this bustle of ants had been in progress for years at the same spot—doubtless those of the old times were the ancestors of these which walked there now。 She leant back to obtain more thorough rest； and the soft eastern portion of the sky was as great a relief to her eyes as the thyme was to her head。 While she looked a heron arose on that side of the sky and flew on with his face towards the sun。 He had e dripping wet from some pool in the valleys； and as he flew the edges and lining of his wings； his thighs and his breast were so caught by the bright sunbeams that he appeared as if formed of burnished silver。 Up in the zenith where he was seemed a free and happy place； away from all contact with the earthly ball to which she was pinioned； and she wished that she could arise uncrushed from its surface and fly as he flew then。
But； being a mother； it was inevitable that she should soon cease to ruminate upon her own condition。 Had the track of her next thought been marked by a streak in the air； like the path of a meteor； it would have shown a direction contrary to the heron’s； and have descended to the eastward upon the roof of Clym’s house。
7 … The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends
He in the meantime had aroused himself from sleep； sat up； and looked around。 Eustacia was sitting in a chair hard by him； and though she held a book in her hand she had not looked into it for some time。
“Well； indeed！” said Clym； brushing his eyes with his hands。 “How soundly I have slept！ I have had such a tremendous dream； too—one I shall never forget。”
“I thought you had been dreaming；” said she。
“Yes。 It was about my mother。 I dreamt that I took you to her house to make up differences； and when we got there we couldn’t get in； though she kept on crying to us for help。 However； dreams are dreams。 What o’clock is it； Eustacia？”
“Half…past two。”
“So late； is it？ I didn’t mean to stay so long。 By the time I have had something to eat it will be after three。”
“Ann is not e back from the village； and I thought I would let you sleep on till she returned。”
Clym went to the window and looked out。 Presently he said； musingly； “Week after week passes； and yet Mother does not e。 I thought I should have heard something from her long before this。”
Misgiving； regret； fear； resolution； ran their swift course of expression in Eustacia’s dark eyes。 She was face to face with a monstrous difficulty； and she resolved to get free of it by postponement。
“I must certainly go to Blooms…End soon；” he continued； “and I think I had better go alone。” He picked up his leggings and gloves； threw them down again； and added； “As dinner will be so late today I will not go back to the heath； but work in the garden till the evening； and then； when it will be cooler； I will walk to Blooms…End。 I am quite sure that if I make a little advance Mother will be willing to forget all。 It will be rather late before I can get home； as I shall not be able to do the distance either way in less than an hour and a half。 But you will not mind for one evening； dear？ What are you thinking of to make you look so abstracted？”
“I cannot tell you；” she said heavily。 “I wish we didn’t live here； Clym。 The world seems all wrong in this place。”
“Well—if we make it so。 I wonder if Thomasin has been to Blooms…End lately。 I hope so。 But probably not； as she is； I believe； expecting to be confined in a month or so。 I wish I had thought of that before。 Poor Mother must indeed be very lonely。”
“I don’t like you going tonight。”
“Why not tonight？”
“Something may be said which will terribly injure me。”
“My mother is not vindictive；” said Clym； his colour faintly rising。
“But I wish you would not go；” Eustacia repeated in a low tone。 “If you agree not to go tonight I promise to go by myself to her house tomorrow； and make it up with her； and wait till you fetch me。”
“Why do you want to do that at this particular time； when at every previous time that I have proposed it you have refused？”
“I cannot explain further than that I should like to see her alone before you go；” she answered； with an impatient move of her head； and looking at him with an anxiety more frequently seen upon those of a sanguine temperament than upon such as herself。
“Well； it is very odd that just when I had decided to go myself you should want to do what I proposed long ago。 If I wait for you to go tomorrow another day will be lost； and I know I shall be unable to rest another night without having been。 I want to get this settled； and will。 You must visit her afterwards—it will be all the same。”
“I could even go with you now？”
“You could scarcely walk there and back without a longer rest than I shall take。 No； not tonight； Eustacia。”
“Let it be as you say； then；” she replied in the quiet way of one who； though willing to ward off evil consequences by a mild effort； would let events fall out as they might sooner than wrestle hard to direct them。
Clym then went into the garden； and a thoughtful languor stole over Eustacia for the remainder of the afternoon； which her husband attributed to the heat of the weather。
In the evening he set out on the journey。 Although the heat of summer was yet intense the days had considerably shortened； and before he had advanced a mile on his way all the heath purples； browns； and greens had merged in a uniform dress without airiness or graduation； and broken only by touches of white where the little heaps of clean quartz sand showed the entrance to a rabbit burrow； or where the white flints of a footpath lay like a thread over the slopes。 In almost every one of the isolated and stunted thorns which grew here and there a nighthawk revealed his presence by whirring like the clack of a mill as long as he could hold his breath； then stopping； flapping his wings； wheeling round the bush； alighting； and after a silent interval of listening beginning to whirr again。 At each brushing of Clym’s feet white millermoths flew into the air just high enough to catch upon their dusty wings the mellowed light from the west； which now shone across the depressions and levels of the ground without falling thereon to light them up。
Yeobright walked on amid this quiet scene with a hope that all would soon be well。 Three miles on he came to a spot where a soft perfume was wafted across his path； and he stood still for a moment to inhale the familiar scent。 It was the place at which； four hours earlier； his mother had sat