His mother’s old chair was opposite; it had been sat in that evening by those who had scarcely remembered that it ever was hers. But to Clym she was almost a presence there, now as always. Whatever she was in other people’s memories, in his she was the sublime saint whose radiance even his tenderness for Eustacia could not obscure. But his heart was heavy: that mother had not crowned him in the day of his espousals, and in the day of the gladness of his heart.* And events had borne out the accuracy of her judgment, and proved the devotedness of her care. He should have heeded her—for
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Poor Clym never listened to anyone's advice. Not his mother's, not Eustacia's, not anyone who lived upon Egdon. He stubbornly thought he knew best. But, in his defense, no one listened to Clym. Not his mother. Not Eustacia. He told them he wanted a quiet life on Egdon Heath educating the workers, but his mother urged him to continue with his previous work and Eustacia believed she could influence him to return to Paris. No one was really listening to anyone.
