“Yes, he has,” said Clym in a neutral tone. “Well, I wish with all my
heart that I could say, marry him. But I cannot forget what my mother
thought on that matter, and it goes rather against me not to respect
her opinion. There is too much reason why we should do the little we
can to respect it now.”
“Very well, then,” sighed Thomasin. “I will say no more.”
“But you are not bound to obey my wishes. I merely say what I think.”
O no–I don’t want to be rebellious in that way,” she said sadly. “I
had no business to think of him–I ought to have thought of my family.
What dreadfully bad impulses there are in me!” Her lips trembled, and
she turned away to hide a tear.
Clym, though vexed at what seemed her unaccountable taste, was in a
measure relieved to find that at any rate the marriage question in
relation to himself was shelved. Through several succeeding days
he saw her at different times from the window of his room moping
disconsolately about the garden. He was half angry with her for
choosing Venn; then he was grieved at having put himself in the way
of Venn’s happiness, who was, after all, as honest and persevering a
young fellow as any on Egdon, since he had turned over a new leaf.
In short, Clym did not know what to do.
When next they met she said abruptly, “He is much more respectable
now than he was then!”
“Who? O yes–Diggory Venn.”