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Yeobright's work-basket, and at Thomasin's words her aunt reopened it, and silently read for the tenth time that day: What is the meaning of this silly story that people are circulating about Thomasin and Mr. Wildeve? I should call such a scandal humiliating if there was the least chance of its being true. How could such a gross falsehood have arisen?
"Not that such mumming would have passed in our time. Harry as the Saracen should strut a bit more, and John needn't holler his inside out. Beyond that perhaps you'll do. Have you got all your clothes ready?" "We shall by Monday." "Your first outing will be Monday night, I suppose?" "Yes. At Mrs. Yeobright's." "Oh, Mrs. Yeobright's. What makes her want to see ye?
Yeobright's occasional assistant in the garden, and therefore one of the invited. The smoke went up from an Etna of peat in front of him, played round the notches of the chimney-crook, struck against the salt-box, and got lost among the flitches. Another part of the room soon riveted her gaze.
"Thomasin, Thomasin!" she said, looking indignantly at Wildeve; "here's a pretty exposure! Let us escape at once. Come!" It was, however, too late to get away by the passage. A rugged knocking had begun upon the door of the front room. Wildeve, who had gone to the window, came back. "Stop!" he said imperiously, putting his hand upon Mrs. Yeobright's arm. "We are regularly besieged.
At the next haul the weight was not heavy, and it was discovered that they had only secured a coil of the rope detached from the bucket. The tangled mass was thrown into the background. Humphrey took Yeobright's place, and the grapnel was lowered again. Yeobright retired to the heap of recovered rope in a meditative mood.
Yeobright's local peculiarity was that in striving at high thinking he still cleaved to plain living nay, wild and meagre living in many respects, and brotherliness with clowns. He was a John the Baptist who took ennoblement rather than repentance for his text. Mentally he was in a provincial future, that is, he was in many points abreast with the central town thinkers of his date.
"Hoi-i-i-i!" cried a voice from the darkness. "Halloo-o-o-o!" said Fairway. "Is there any cart track up across here to Mis'ess Yeobright's, of Blooms-End?" came to them in the same voice, as a long, slim indistinct figure approached the barrow. "Ought we not to run home as hard as we can, neighbours, as 'tis getting late?" said Christian.
Mother, what is doing well?" Mrs. Yeobright was far too thoughtful a woman to be content with ready definitions, and, like the "What is wisdom?" of Plato's Socrates, and the "What is truth?" of Pontius Pilate, Yeobright's burning question received no answer. The silence was broken by the clash of the garden gate, a tap at the door, and its opening.
She was expecting Thomasin, who had written the night before to state that the time had come when she would wish to have the money, and that she would if possible call this day. Yet Thomasin occupied Mrs. Yeobright's thoughts but slightly as she looked up the valley of the heath, alive with butterflies, and with grasshoppers whose husky noises on every side formed a whispered chorus.
Yeobright's refusal implied that his honour was not considered to be of sufficiently good quality to make him a safer bearer of his wife's property. "How very warm it is tonight, Christian!" he said, panting, when they were nearly under Rainbarrow. "Let us sit down for a few minutes, for Heaven's sake."
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