prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
7--The Morning and the Evening of a Day

The wedding morning came. Nobody would have imagined from appearances
that Blooms-End had any interest in Mistover that day. A solemn
stillness prevailed around the house of Clym's mother, and there was no
more animation indoors. Mrs. Yeobright, who had declined to attend the
ceremony, sat by the breakfast table in the old room which communicated
immediately with the porch, her eyes listlessly directed towards the
open door. It was the room in which, six months earlier, the merry
Christmas party had met, to which Eustacia came secretly and as a
stranger. The only living thing that entered now was a sparrow; and
seeing no movements to cause alarm, he hopped boldly round the
room, endeavoured to go out by the window, and fluttered among the
pot-flowers. This roused the lonely sitter, who got up, released the
bird, and went to the door. 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.
A domestic drama, for which the preparations were now being made a mile
or two off, was but little less vividly present to her eyes than if
enacted before her. She tried to dismiss the vision, and walked about
the garden plot; but her eyes ever and anon sought out the direction
of the parish church to which Mistover belonged, and her excited fancy
clove the hills which divided the building from her eyes. The morning
wore away. Eleven o'clock struck--could it be that the wedding was
then in progress? It must be so. She went on imagining the scene at
the church, which he had by this time approached with his bride. She
pictured the little group of children by the gate as the pony carriage
drove up in which, as Thomasin had learnt, they were going to perform
the short journey. Then she saw them enter and proceed to the chancel
and kneel; and the service seemed to go on.

She covered her face with her hands. "O, it is a mistake!" she groaned.
"And he will rue it some day, and think of me!"

While she remained thus, overcome by her forebodings, the old clock
indoors whizzed forth twelve strokes. Soon after, faint sounds floated
to her ear from afar over the hills. The breeze came from that quarter,
and it had brought with it the notes of distant bells, gaily starting
off in a peal: one, two, three, four, five. The ringers at East Egdon
were announcing the nuptials of Eustacia and her son.

"Then it is over," she murmured. "Well, well! and life too will be over
soon. And why should I go on scalding my face like this? Cry about one
thing in life, cry about all; one thread runs through the whole piece.
And yet we say, 'a time to laugh!'"

Towards evening Wildeve came. Since Thomasin's marriage Mrs. Yeobright
had shown him that grim friendliness which at last arises in all such
cases of undesired affinity. The vision of what ought to have been
is thrown aside in sheer weariness, and browbeaten human endeavour
listlessly makes the best of the fact that is. Wildeve, to do him
justice, had behaved very courteously to his wife's aunt; and it was
with no surprise that she saw him enter now.

"Thomasin has not been able to come, as she promised to do," he replied
to her inquiry, which had been anxious, for she knew that her niece was
badly in want of money. "The captain came down last night and
personally pressed her to join them today. So, not to be unpleasant,
she determined to go. They fetched her in the pony-chaise, and are
going to bring her back."

"Then it is done," said Mrs. Yeobright. "Have they gone to their new
home?"

"I don't know. I have had no news from Mistover since Thomasin left to
go."

"You did not go with her?" said she, as if there might be good reasons
why.

"I could not," said Wildeve, reddening slightly. "We could not both
leave the house; it was rather a busy morning, on account of Anglebury
Great Market. I believe you have something to give to Thomasin? If you
like, I will take it."

Mrs. Yeobright hesitated, and wondered if Wildeve knew what the
something was. "Did she tell you of this?" she inquired.

"Not particularly. She casually dropped a remark about having arranged
to fetch some article or other."

"It is hardly necessary to send it. She can have it whenever she chooses
to come."

"That won't be yet. In the present state of her health she must not go
on walking so much as she has done." He added, with a faint twang of
sarcasm, "What wonderful thing is it that I cannot be trusted to take?"

"Nothing worth troubling you with."

"One would think you doubted my honesty," he said, with a laugh, though
his colour rose in a quick resentfulness frequent with him.

"You need think no such thing," said she drily. "It is simply that I,
in common with the rest of the world, feel that there are certain things
which had better be done by certain people than by others."

"As you like, as you like," said Wildeve laconically. "It is not worth
arguing about. Well, I think I must turn homeward again, as the inn must
not be left long in charge of the lad and the maid only."

He went his way, his farewell being scarcely so courteous as his
greeting. But Mrs. Yeobright knew him thoroughly by this time, and took
little notice of his manner, good or bad.

When Wildeve was gone Mrs. Yeobright stood and considered what would be
the best course to adopt with regard to the guineas, which she had not
liked to entrust to Wildeve. It was hardly credible that Thomasin had
told him to ask for them, when the necessity for them had arisen
from the difficulty of obtaining money at his hands. At the same time
Thomasin really wanted them, and might be unable to come to Blooms-End
for another week at least. To take or send the money to her at the inn
would be impolite, since Wildeve would pretty surely be present, or
would discover the transaction; and if, as her aunt suspected, he
treated her less kindly than she deserved to be treated, he might
then get the whole sum out of her gentle hands. But on this particular
evening Thomasin was at Mistover, and anything might be conveyed to
her there without the knowledge of her husband. Upon the whole the
opportunity was worth taking advantage of.

Her son, too, was there, and was now married. There could be no more
proper moment to render him his share of the money than the present.
And the chance that would be afforded her, by sending him this gift,
of showing how far she was from bearing him ill-will, cheered the sad
mother's heart.

She went upstairs and took from a locked drawer a little box, out of
which she poured a hoard of broad unworn guineas that had lain there
many a year. There were a hundred in all, and she divided them into two
heaps, fifty in each. Tying up these in small canvas bags, she went down
to the garden and called to Christian Cantle, who was loitering about in
hope of a supper which was not really owed him. Mrs. Yeobright gave
him the moneybags, charged him to go to Mistover, and on no account
to deliver them into any one's hands save her son's and Thomasin's. On
further thought she deemed it advisable to tell Christian precisely
what the two bags contained, that he might be fully impressed with their
importance. Christian pocketed the moneybags, promised the greatest
carefulness, and set out on his way.

"You need not hurry," said Mrs. Yeobright. "It will be better not to get
there till after dusk, and then nobody will notice you. Come back here
to supper, if it is not too late."

It was nearly nine o'clock when he began to ascend the vale towards
Mistover; but the long days of summer being at their climax, the first
obscurity of evening had only just begun to tan the landscape. At
this point of his journey Christian heard voices, and found that they
proceeded from a company of men and women who were traversing a hollow
ahead of him, the tops only of their heads being visible.

He paused and thought of the money he carried. It was almost too early
even for Christian seriously to fear robbery; nevertheless he took
a precaution which ever since his boyhood he had adopted whenever he
carried more than two or three shillings upon his person--a precaution
somewhat like that of the owner of the Pitt Diamond when filled with
similar misgivings. He took off his boots, untied the guineas, and
emptied the contents of one little bag into the right boot, and of
the other into the left, spreading them as flatly as possible over the
bottom of each, which was really a spacious coffer by no means limited
to the size of the foot. Pulling them on again and lacing them to the
very top, he proceeded on his way, more easy in his head than under his
soles.

His path converged towards that of the noisy company, and on coming
nearer he found to his relief that they were several Egdon people whom
he knew very well, while with them walked Fairway, of Blooms-End.

"What! Christian going too?" said Fairway as soon as he recognized the
newcomer. "You've got no young woman nor wife to your name to gie a
gown-piece to, I'm sure."

"What d'ye mean?" said Christian.

"Why, the raffle. The one we go to every year. Going to the raffle as
well as ourselves?"

"Never knew a word o't. Is it like cudgel playing or other sportful
forms of bloodshed? I don't want to go, thank you, Mister Fairway, and
no offence."

"Christian don't know the fun o't, and 'twould be a fine sight for him,"
said a buxom woman. "There's no danger at all, Christian. Every man
puts in a shilling apiece, and one wins a gown-piece for his wife or
sweetheart if he's got one."

"Well, as that's not my fortune there's no meaning in it to me. But I
should like to see the fun, if there's nothing of the black art in it,
and if a man may look on without cost or getting into any dangerous
wrangle?"

"There will be no uproar at all," said Timothy. "Sure, Christian, if
you'd like to come we'll see there's no harm done."

"And no ba'dy gaieties, I suppose? You see, neighbours, if so, it
would be setting father a bad example, as he is so light moral'd. But
a gown-piece for a shilling, and no black art--'tis worth looking in to
see, and it wouldn't hinder me half an hour. Yes, I'll come, if you'll
step a little way towards Mistover with me afterwards, supposing night
should have closed in, and nobody else is going that way?"

One or two promised; and Christian, diverging from his direct path,
turned round to the right with his companions towards the Quiet Woman.

When they entered the large common room of the inn they found assembled
there about ten men from among the neighbouring population, and the
group was increased by the new contingent to double that number. Most of
them were sitting round the room in seats divided by wooden elbows like
those of crude cathedral stalls, which were carved with the initials of
many an illustrious drunkard of former times who had passed his days
and his nights between them, and now lay as an alcoholic cinder in the
nearest churchyard. Among the cups on the long table before the
sitters lay an open parcel of light drapery--the gown-piece, as it was
called--which was to be raffled for. Wildeve was standing with his back
to the fireplace smoking a cigar; and the promoter of the raffle, a
packman from a distant town, was expatiating upon the value of the
fabric as material for a summer dress.

"Now, gentlemen," he continued, as the newcomers drew up to the table,
"there's five have entered, and we want four more to make up the number.
I think, by the faces of those gentlemen who have just come in, that
they are shrewd enough to take advantage of this rare opportunity of
beautifying their ladies at a very trifling expense."

Fairway, Sam, and another placed their shillings on the table, and the
man turned to Christian.

"No, sir," said Christian, drawing back, with a quick gaze of misgiving.
"I am only a poor chap come to look on, an it please ye, sir. I don't
so much as know how you do it. If so be I was sure of getting it I would
put down the shilling; but I couldn't otherwise."

"I think you might almost be sure," said the pedlar. "In fact, now I
look into your face, even if I can't say you are sure to win, I can say
that I never saw anything look more like winning in my life."

"You'll anyhow have the same chance as the rest of us," said Sam.

"And the extra luck of being the last comer," said another.

"And I was born wi' a caul, and perhaps can be no more ruined than
drowned?" Christian added, beginning to give way.

Ultimately Christian laid down his shilling, the raffle began, and the
dice went round. When it came to Christian's turn he took the box with a
trembling hand, shook it fearfully, and threw a pair-royal. Three of the
others had thrown common low pairs, and all the rest mere points.

"The gentleman looked like winning, as I said," observed the chapman
blandly. "Take it, sir; the article is yours."

"Haw-haw-haw!" said Fairway. "I'm damned if this isn't the quarest start
that ever I knowed!"

"Mine?" asked Christian, with a vacant stare from his target eyes. "I--I
haven't got neither maid, wife, nor widder belonging to me at all, and
I'm afeard it will make me laughed at to ha'e it, Master Traveller. What
with being curious to join in I never thought of that! What shall I do
wi' a woman's clothes in MY bedroom, and not lose my decency!"

"Keep 'em, to be sure," said Fairway, "if it is only for luck. Perhaps
'twill tempt some woman that thy poor carcase had no power over when
standing empty-handed."

"Keep it, certainly," said Wildeve, who had idly watched the scene from
a distance.

The table was then cleared of the articles, and the men began to drink.

"Well, to be sure!" said Christian, half to himself. "To think I should
have been born so lucky as this, and not have found it out until now!
What curious creatures these dice be--powerful rulers of us all, and
yet at my command! I am sure I never need be afeared of anything after
this." He handled the dice fondly one by one. "Why, sir," he said in a
confidential whisper to Wildeve, who was near his left hand, "if I could
only use this power that's in me of multiplying money I might do some
good to a near relation of yours, seeing what I've got about me of
hers--eh?" He tapped one of his money-laden boots upon the floor.

"What do you mean?" said Wildeve.

"That's a secret. Well, I must be going now." He looked anxiously
towards Fairway.

"Where are you going?" Wildeve asked.

"To Mistover Knap. I have to see Mrs. Thomasin there--that's all."

"I am going there, too, to fetch Mrs. Wildeve. We can walk together."

Wildeve became lost in thought, and a look of inward illumination came
into his eyes. It was money for his wife that Mrs. Yeobright could not
trust him with. "Yet she could trust this fellow," he said to himself.
"Why doesn't that which belongs to the wife belong to the husband too?"

He called to the pot-boy to bring him his hat, and said, "Now,
Christian, I am ready."

"Mr. Wildeve," said Christian timidly, as he turned to leave the room,
"would you mind lending me them wonderful little things that carry my
luck inside 'em, that I might practise a bit by myself, you know?" He
looked wistfully at the dice and box lying on the mantlepiece.

"Certainly," said Wildeve carelessly. "They were only cut out by some
lad with his knife, and are worth nothing." And Christian went back and
privately pocketed them.

Wildeve opened the door and looked out. The night was warm and cloudy.
"By Gad! 'tis dark," he continued. "But I suppose we shall find our
way."

"If we should lose the path it might be awkward," said Christian. "A
lantern is the only shield that will make it safe for us."

"Let's have a lantern by all means." The stable lantern was fetched and
lighted. Christian took up his gownpiece, and the two set out to ascend
the hill.

Within the room the men fell into chat till their attention was for a
moment drawn to the chimney-corner. This was large, and, in addition
to its proper recess, contained within its jambs, like many on Egdon, a
receding seat, so that a person might sit there absolutely unobserved,
provided there was no fire to light him up, as was the case now and
throughout the summer. From the niche a single object protruded into the
light from the candles on the table. It was a clay pipe, and its colour
was reddish. The men had been attracted to this object by a voice behind
the pipe asking for a light.

"Upon my life, it fairly startled me when the man spoke!" said Fairway,
handing a candle. "Oh--'tis the reddleman! You've kept a quiet tongue,
young man."

"Yes, I had nothing to say," observed Venn. In a few minutes he arose
and wished the company good night.

Meanwhile Wildeve and Christian had plunged into the heath.

It was a stagnant, warm, and misty night, full of all the heavy perfumes
of new vegetation not yet dried by hot sun, and among these particularly
the scent of the fern. The lantern, dangling from Christian's hand,
brushed the feathery fronds in passing by, disturbing moths and other
winged insects, which flew out and alighted upon its horny panes.

"So you have money to carry to Mrs. Wildeve?" said Christian's
companion, after a silence. "Don't you think it very odd that it
shouldn't be given to me?"

"As man and wife be one flesh, 'twould have been all the same, I should
think," said Christian. "But my strict documents was, to give the money
into Mrs. Wildeve's hand--and 'tis well to do things right."

"No doubt," said Wildeve. Any person who had known the circumstances
might have perceived that Wildeve was mortified by the discovery that
the matter in transit was money, and not, as he had supposed when at
Blooms-End, some fancy nick-nack which only interested the two women
themselves. Mrs. 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."

Wildeve flung himself down on the soft ferns; and Christian, placing the
lantern and parcel on the ground, perched himself in a cramped position
hard by, his knees almost touching his chin. He presently thrust one
hand into his coat-pocket and began shaking it about.

"What are you rattling in there?" said Wildeve.

"Only the dice, sir," said Christian, quickly withdrawing his hand.
"What magical machines these little things be, Mr. Wildeve! 'Tis a
game I should never get tired of. Would you mind my taking 'em out and
looking at 'em for a minute, to see how they are made? I didn't like
to look close before the other men, for fear they should think it bad
manners in me." Christian took them out and examined them in the hollow
of his hand by the lantern light. "That these little things should carry
such luck, and such charm, and such a spell, and such power in 'em,
passes all I ever heard or zeed," he went on, with a fascinated gaze at
the dice, which, as is frequently the case in country places, were made
of wood, the points being burnt upon each face with the end of a wire.

"They are a great deal in a small compass, You think?"

"Yes. Do ye suppose they really be the devil's playthings, Mr. Wildeve?
If so, 'tis no good sign that I be such a lucky man."

"You ought to win some money, now that you've got them. Any woman would
marry you then. Now is your time, Christian, and I would recommend you
not to let it slip. Some men are born to luck, some are not. I belong to
the latter class."

"Did you ever know anybody who was born to it besides myself?"

"O yes. I once heard of an Italian, who sat down at a gaming table with
only a louis, (that's a foreign sovereign), in his pocket. He played on
for twenty-four hours, and won ten thousand pounds, stripping the
bank he had played against. Then there was another man who had lost a
thousand pounds, and went to the broker's next day to sell stock, that
he might pay the debt. The man to whom he owed the money went with him
in a hackney-coach; and to pass the time they tossed who should pay
the fare. The ruined man won, and the other was tempted to continue the
game, and they played all the way. When the coachman stopped he was told
to drive home again: the whole thousand pounds had been won back by the
man who was going to sell."

"Ha--ha--splendid!" exclaimed Christian. "Go on--go on!"

"Then there was a man of London, who was only a waiter at White's
clubhouse. He began playing first half-crown stakes, and then higher and
higher, till he became very rich, got an appointment in India, and rose
to be Governor of Madras. His daughter married a member of Parliament,
and the Bishop of Carlisle stood godfather to one of the children."

"Wonderful! wonderful!"

"And once there was a young man in America who gambled till he had lost
his last dollar. He staked his watch and chain, and lost as before;
staked his umbrella, lost again; staked his hat, lost again; staked his
coat and stood in his shirt-sleeves, lost again. Began taking off his
breeches, and then a looker-on gave him a trifle for his pluck. With
this he won. Won back his coat, won back his hat, won back his umbrella,
his watch, his money, and went out of the door a rich man."

"Oh, 'tis too good--it takes away my breath! Mr. Wildeve, I think I will
try another shilling with you, as I am one of that sort; no danger can
come o't, and you can afford to lose."

"Very well," said Wildeve, rising. Searching about with the lantern, he
found a large flat stone, which he placed between himself and Christian,
and sat down again. The lantern was opened to give more light, and it's
rays directed upon the stone. Christian put down a shilling, Wildeve
another, and each threw. Christian won. They played for two, Christian
won again.

"Let us try four," said Wildeve. They played for four. This time the
stakes were won by Wildeve.

"Ah, those little accidents will, of course, sometimes happen, to the
luckiest man," he observed.

"And now I have no more money!" explained Christian excitedly. "And yet,
if I could go on, I should get it back again, and more. I wish this was
mine." He struck his boot upon the ground, so that the guineas chinked
within.

"What! you have not put Mrs. Wildeve's money there?"

"Yes. 'Tis for safety. Is it any harm to raffle with a married lady's
money when, if I win, I shall only keep my winnings, and give her her
own all the same; and if t'other man wins, her money will go to the
lawful owner?"

"None at all."

Wildeve had been brooding ever since they started on the mean estimation
in which he was held by his wife's friends; and it cut his heart
severely. As the minutes passed he had gradually drifted into a
revengeful intention without knowing the precise moment of forming it.
This was to teach Mrs. Yeobright a lesson, as he considered it to be;
in other words, to show her if he could that her niece's husband was the
proper guardian of her niece's money.

"Well, here goes!" said Christian, beginning to unlace one boot. "I
shall dream of it nights and nights, I suppose; but I shall always swear
my flesh don't crawl when I think o't!"

He thrust his hand into the boot and withdrew one of poor Thomasin's
precious guineas, piping hot. Wildeve had already placed a sovereign on
the stone. The game was then resumed. Wildeve won first, and Christian
ventured another, winning himself this time. The game fluctuated, but
the average was in Wildeve's favour. Both men became so absorbed in
the game that they took no heed of anything but the pigmy objects
immediately beneath their eyes, the flat stone, the open lantern, the
dice, and the few illuminated fern-leaves which lay under the light,
were the whole world to them.

At length Christian lost rapidly; and presently, to his horror, the
whole fifty guineas belonging to Thomasin had been handed over to his
adversary.

"I don't care--I don't care!" he moaned, and desperately set about
untying his left boot to get at the other fifty. "The devil will toss me
into the flames on his three-pronged fork for this night's work, I know!
But perhaps I shall win yet, and then I'll get a wife to sit up with
me o' nights and I won't be afeard, I won't! Here's another for'ee, my
man!" He slapped another guinea down upon the stone, and the dice-box
was rattled again.

Time passed on. Wildeve began to be as excited as Christian himself.
When commencing the game his intention had been nothing further than
a bitter practical joke on Mrs. Yeobright. To win the money, fairly
or otherwise, and to hand it contemptuously to Thomasin in her aunt's
presence, had been the dim outline of his purpose. But men are drawn
from their intentions even in the course of carrying them out, and
it was extremely doubtful, by the time the twentieth guinea had been
reached, whether Wildeve was conscious of any other intention than that
of winning for his own personal benefit. Moreover, he was now no longer
gambling for his wife's money, but for Yeobright's; though of this fact
Christian, in his apprehensiveness, did not inform him till afterwards.

It was nearly eleven o'clock, when, with almost a shriek, Christian
placed Yeobright's last gleaming guinea upon the stone. In thirty
seconds it had gone the way of its companions.

Christian turned and flung himself on the ferns in a convulsion of
remorse, "O, what shall I do with my wretched self?" he groaned. "What
shall I do? Will any good Heaven hae mercy upon my wicked soul?"

"Do? Live on just the same."

"I won't live on just the same! I'll die! I say you are a--a----"

"A man sharper than my neighbour."

"Yes, a man sharper than my neighbour; a regular sharper!"

"Poor chips-in-porridge, you are very unmannerly."

"I don't know about that! And I say you be unmannerly! You've got money
that isn't your own. Half the guineas are poor Mr. Clym's."

"How's that?"

"Because I had to gie fifty of 'em to him. Mrs. Yeobright said so."

"Oh?... Well, 'twould have been more graceful of her to have given them
to his wife Eustacia. But they are in my hands now."

Christian pulled on his boots, and with heavy breathings, which could be
heard to some distance, dragged his limbs together, arose, and tottered
away out of sight. Wildeve set about shutting the lantern to return to
the house, for he deemed it too late to go to Mistover to meet his wife,
who was to be driven home in the captain's four-wheel. While he was
closing the little horn door a figure rose from behind a neighbouring
bush and came forward into the lantern light. It was the reddleman
approaching.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
8--A New Force Disturbs the Current

Wildeve stared. Venn looked coolly towards Wildeve, and, without a word
being spoken, he deliberately sat himself down where Christian had been
seated, thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out a sovereign, and laid
it on the stone.

"You have been watching us from behind that bush?" said Wildeve.

The reddleman nodded. "Down with your stake," he said. "Or haven't you
pluck enough to go on?"

Now, gambling is a species of amusement which is much more easily begun
with full pockets than left off with the same; and though Wildeve in
a cooler temper might have prudently declined this invitation, the
excitement of his recent success carried him completely away. He placed
one of the guineas on a slab beside the reddleman's sovereign. "Mine is
a guinea," he said.

"A guinea that's not your own," said Venn sarcastically.

"It is my own," answered Wildeve haughtily. "It is my wife's, and what
is hers is mine."

"Very well; let's make a beginning." He shook the box, and threw eight,
ten, and nine; the three casts amounted to twenty-seven.

This encouraged Wildeve. He took the box; and his three casts amounted
to forty-five.

Down went another of the reddleman's sovereigns against his first one
which Wildeve laid. This time Wildeve threw fifty-one points, but no
pair. The reddleman looked grim, threw a raffle of aces, and pocketed
the stakes.

"Here you are again," said Wildeve contemptuously. "Double the stakes."
He laid two of Thomasin's guineas, and the reddleman his two pounds.
Venn won again. New stakes were laid on the stone, and the gamblers
proceeded as before.

Wildeve was a nervous and excitable man, and the game was beginning
to tell upon his temper. He writhed, fumed, shifted his seat, and the
beating of his heart was almost audible. Venn sat with lips impassively
closed and eyes reduced to a pair of unimportant twinkles; he scarcely
appeared to breathe. He might have been an Arab, or an automaton; he
would have been like a red sandstone statue but for the motion of his
arm with the dice-box.

The game fluctuated, now in favour of one, now in favour of the other,
without any great advantage on the side of either. Nearly twenty minutes
were passed thus. The light of the candle had by this time attracted
heath-flies, moths, and other winged creatures of night, which floated
round the lantern, flew into the flame, or beat about the faces of the
two players.

But neither of the men paid much attention to these things, their eyes
being concentrated upon the little flat stone, which to them was an
arena vast and important as a battlefield. By this time a change had
come over the game; the reddleman won continually. At length sixty
guineas--Thomasin's fifty, and ten of Clym's--had passed into his hands.
Wildeve was reckless, frantic, exasperated.

"'Won back his coat,'" said Venn slily.

Another throw, and the money went the same way.

"'Won back his hat,'" continued Venn.

"Oh, oh!" said Wildeve.

"'Won back his watch, won back his money, and went out of the door a
rich man,'" added Venn sentence by sentence, as stake after stake passed
over to him.

"Five more!" shouted Wildeve, dashing down the money. "And three casts
be hanged--one shall decide."

The red automaton opposite lapsed into silence, nodded, and followed
his example. Wildeve rattled the box, and threw a pair of sixes and five
points. He clapped his hands; "I have done it this time--hurrah!"

"There are two playing, and only one has thrown," said the reddleman,
quietly bringing down the box. The eyes of each were then so intently
converged upon the stone that one could fancy their beams were visible,
like rays in a fog.

Venn lifted the box, and behold a triplet of sixes was disclosed.

Wildeve was full of fury. While the reddleman was grasping the stakes
Wildeve seized the dice and hurled them, box and all, into the darkness,
uttering a fearful imprecation. Then he arose and began stamping up and
down like a madman.

"It is all over, then?" said Venn.

"No, no!" cried Wildeve. "I mean to have another chance yet. I must!"

"But, my good man, what have you done with the dice?"

"I threw them away--it was a momentary irritation. What a fool I am!
Here--come and help me to look for them--we must find them again."

Wildeve snatched up the lantern and began anxiously prowling among the
furze and fern.

"You are not likely to find them there," said Venn, following. "What did
you do such a crazy thing as that for? Here's the box. The dice can't be
far off."

Wildeve turned the light eagerly upon the spot where Venn had found
the box, and mauled the herbage right and left. In the course of a few
minutes one of the dice was found. They searched on for some time, but
no other was to be seen.

"Never mind," said Wildeve; "let's play with one."

"Agreed," said Venn.

Down they sat again, and recommenced with single guinea stakes; and the
play went on smartly. But Fortune had unmistakably fallen in love
with the reddleman tonight. He won steadily, till he was the owner of
fourteen more of the gold pieces. Seventy-nine of the hundred guineas
were his, Wildeve possessing only twenty-one. The aspect of the two
opponents was now singular. Apart from motions, a complete diorama
of the fluctuations of the game went on in their eyes. A diminutive
candle-flame was mirrored in each pupil, and it would have been possible
to distinguish therein between the moods of hope and the moods of
abandonment, even as regards the reddleman, though his facial muscles
betrayed nothing at all. Wildeve played on with the recklessness of
despair.

"What's that?" he suddenly exclaimed, hearing a rustle; and they both
looked up.

They were surrounded by dusky forms between four and five feet high,
standing a few paces beyond the rays of the lantern. A moment's
inspection revealed that the encircling figures were heath-croppers,
their heads being all towards the players, at whom they gazed intently.

"Hoosh!" said Wildeve, and the whole forty or fifty animals at once
turned and galloped away. Play was again resumed.

Ten minutes passed away. Then a large death's head moth advanced from
the obscure outer air, wheeled twice round the lantern, flew straight
at the candle, and extinguished it by the force of the blow. Wildeve had
just thrown, but had not lifted the box to see what he had cast; and now
it was impossible.

"What the infernal!" he shrieked. "Now, what shall we do? Perhaps I have
thrown six--have you any matches?"

"None," said Venn.

"Christian had some--I wonder where he is. Christian!"

But there was no reply to Wildeve's shout, save a mournful whining
from the herons which were nesting lower down the vale. Both men looked
blankly round without rising. As their eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness they perceived faint greenish points of light among the
grass and fern. These lights dotted the hillside like stars of a low
magnitude.

"Ah--glowworms," said Wildeve. "Wait a minute. We can continue the
game."

Venn sat still, and his companion went hither and thither till he had
gathered thirteen glowworms--as many as he could find in a space of four
or five minutes--upon a fox-glove leaf which he pulled for the purpose.
The reddleman vented a low humorous laugh when he saw his adversary
return with these. "Determined to go on, then?" he said drily.

"I always am!" said Wildeve angrily. And shaking the glowworms from
the leaf he ranged them with a trembling hand in a circle on the stone,
leaving a space in the middle for the descent of the dice-box, over
which the thirteen tiny lamps threw a pale phosphoric shine. The game
was again renewed. It happened to be that season of the year at which
glowworms put forth their greatest brilliancy, and the light they
yielded was more than ample for the purpose, since it is possible on
such nights to read the handwriting of a letter by the light of two or
three.

The incongruity between the men's deeds and their environment was great.
Amid the soft juicy vegetation of the hollow in which they sat, the
motionless and the uninhabited solitude, intruded the chink of guineas,
the rattle of dice, the exclamations of the reckless players.

Wildeve had lifted the box as soon as the lights were obtained, and the
solitary die proclaimed that the game was still against him.

"I won't play any more--you've been tampering with the dice," he
shouted.

"How--when they were your own?" said the reddleman.

"We'll change the game: the lowest point shall win the stake--it may cut
off my ill luck. Do you refuse?"

"No--go on," said Venn.

"O, there they are again--damn them!" cried Wildeve, looking up. The
heath-croppers had returned noiselessly, and were looking on with erect
heads just as before, their timid eyes fixed upon the scene, as if they
were wondering what mankind and candlelight could have to do in these
haunts at this untoward hour.

"What a plague those creatures are--staring at me so!" he said, and
flung a stone, which scattered them; when the game was continued as
before.

Wildeve had now ten guineas left; and each laid five. Wildeve threw
three points; Venn two, and raked in the coins. The other seized the
die, and clenched his teeth upon it in sheer rage, as if he would bite
it in pieces. "Never give in--here are my last five!" he cried, throwing
them down. "Hang the glowworms--they are going out. Why don't you burn,
you little fools? Stir them up with a thorn."

He probed the glowworms with a bit of stick, and rolled them over, till
the bright side of their tails was upwards.

"There's light enough. Throw on," said Venn.

Wildeve brought down the box within the shining circle and looked
eagerly. He had thrown ace. "Well done!--I said it would turn, and it
has turned." Venn said nothing; but his hand shook slightly.

He threw ace also.

"O!" said Wildeve. "Curse me!"

The die smacked the stone a second time. It was ace again. Venn looked
gloomy, threw--the die was seen to be lying in two pieces, the cleft
sides uppermost.

"I've thrown nothing at all," he said.

"Serves me right--I split the die with my teeth. Here--take your money.
Blank is less than one."

"I don't wish it."

"Take it, I say--you've won it!" And Wildeve threw the stakes against
the reddleman's chest. Venn gathered them up, arose, and withdrew from
the hollow, Wildeve sitting stupefied.

When he had come to himself he also arose, and, with the extinguished
lantern in his hand, went towards the highroad. On reaching it he stood
still. The silence of night pervaded the whole heath except in one
direction; and that was towards Mistover. There he could hear the noise
of light wheels, and presently saw two carriagelamps descending the
hill. Wildeve screened himself under a bush and waited.

The vehicle came on and passed before him. It was a hired carriage,
and behind the coachman were two persons whom he knew well. There sat
Eustacia and Yeobright, the arm of the latter being round her waist.
They turned the sharp corner at the bottom towards the temporary home
which Clym had hired and furnished, about five miles to the eastward.

Wildeve forgot the loss of the money at the sight of his lost love,
whose preciousness in his eyes was increasing in geometrical progression
with each new incident that reminded him of their hopeless division.
Brimming with the subtilized misery that he was capable of feeling, he
followed the opposite way towards the inn.

About the same moment that Wildeve stepped into the highway Venn also
had reached it at a point a hundred yards further on; and he, hearing
the same wheels, likewise waited till the carriage should come up. When
he saw who sat therein he seemed to be disappointed. Reflecting a minute
or two, during which interval the carriage rolled on, he crossed the
road, and took a short cut through the furze and heath to a point where
the turnpike road bent round in ascending a hill. He was now again in
front of the carriage, which presently came up at a walking pace. Venn
stepped forward and showed himself.

Eustacia started when the lamp shone upon him, and Clym's arm was
involuntarily withdrawn from her waist. He said, "What, Diggory? You are
having a lonely walk."

"Yes--I beg your pardon for stopping you," said Venn. "But I am
waiting about for Mrs. Wildeve: I have something to give her from Mrs.
Yeobright. Can you tell me if she's gone home from the party yet?"

"No. But she will be leaving soon. You may possibly meet her at the
corner."

Venn made a farewell obeisance, and walked back to his former position,
where the byroad from Mistover joined the highway. Here he remained
fixed for nearly half an hour, and then another pair of lights came down
the hill. It was the old-fashioned wheeled nondescript belonging to the
captain, and Thomasin sat in it alone, driven by Charley.

The reddleman came up as they slowly turned the corner. "I beg pardon
for stopping you, Mrs. Wildeve," he said. "But I have something to
give you privately from Mrs. Yeobright." He handed a small parcel; it
consisted of the hundred guineas he had just won, roughly twisted up in
a piece of paper.

Thomasin recovered from her surprise, and took the packet. "That's all,
ma'am--I wish you good night," he said, and vanished from her view.

Thus Venn, in his anxiety to rectify matters, had placed in Thomasin's
hands not only the fifty guineas which rightly belonged to her, but also
the fifty intended for her cousin Clym. His mistake had been based upon
Wildeve's words at the opening of the game, when he indignantly denied
that the guinea was not his own. It had not been comprehended by the
reddleman that at halfway through the performance the game was continued
with the money of another person; and it was an error which afterwards
helped to cause more misfortune than treble the loss in money value
could have done.

The night was now somewhat advanced; and Venn plunged deeper into the
heath, till he came to a ravine where his van was standing--a spot
not more than two hundred yards from the site of the gambling bout. He
entered this movable home of his, lit his lantern, and, before closing
his door for the night, stood reflecting on the circumstances of the
preceding hours. While he stood the dawn grew visible in the northeast
quarter of the heavens, which, the clouds having cleared off, was bright
with a soft sheen at this midsummer time, though it was only between one
and two o'clock. Venn, thoroughly weary, then shut his door and flung
himself down to sleep.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Clym dreams about his mother while asleep and, once awake, determines to go and see her. Eustacia is fearful that Mrs. Yeobright will tell Clym about what has just transpired at their house and tries to persuade him not to go. Her words fall on deaf ears, for Clym is determined to set things right with him mother again. He sets out across the heat and soon comes upon his barely conscious mother. Clym picks her up and carries her to a hut near Bloomsend. After making her comfortable, he sets out to get help. When he returns, it is discovered that an adder has bitten her. Until a qualified doctor can be summoned, the old remedy of treating the bite with the fat of another adder is used. Shortly after Clym leaves, Captain Vye arrives at Alderworth and tells Eustacia the news that Wildeve has inherited eleven thousand pounds. Eustacia starts out for Bloomsend and meets Wildeve on the way. He reveals that he plans to invest the bulk of the money and use the rest to travel. They are about to part when they see the group at the hut. They hide and observe what is going on. Eustacia and Wildeve learn that Mrs. Yeobright is dying, and both Thomasin and Clym are at her side. Johnny Nunsuch, led by his mother Susan, enters the hut to faithfully repeat to everyone the dead Mrs. Yeobright's last words to him.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
BOOK FIVE -- THE DISCOVERY
1--"Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery"

One evening, about three weeks after the funeral of Mrs. Yeobright, when
the silver face of the moon sent a bundle of beams directly upon the
floor of Clym's house at Alderworth, a woman came forth from within. She
reclined over the garden gate as if to refresh herself awhile. The pale
lunar touches which make beauties of hags lent divinity to this face,
already beautiful.

She had not long been there when a man came up the road and with some
hesitation said to her, "How is he tonight, ma'am, if you please?"

"He is better, though still very unwell, Humphrey," replied Eustacia.

"Is he light-headed, ma'am?"

"No. He is quite sensible now."

"Do he rave about his mother just the same, poor fellow?" continued
Humphrey.

"Just as much, though not quite so wildly," she said in a low voice.

"It was very unfortunate, ma'am, that the boy Johnny should ever ha'
told him his mother's dying words, about her being broken-hearted and
cast off by her son. 'Twas enough to upset any man alive."

Eustacia made no reply beyond that of a slight catch in her breath, as
of one who fain would speak but could not; and Humphrey, declining her
invitation to come in, went away.

Eustacia turned, entered the house, and ascended to the front bedroom,
where a shaded light was burning. In the bed lay Clym, pale, haggard,
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 come 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 welcome 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 come 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 come 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 committed 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 become 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 coming 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 common 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 come 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 became calm."

"Yes, for four days."

"And now I have left off being calm."

"But try to be quiet--please do, and you will soon be strong. If you
could remove that impression from your mind--"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "But I don't want to get strong. What's
the use of my getting well? It would be better for me if I die, and it
would certainly be better for Eustacia. Is Eustacia there?"

"Yes."

"It would be better for you, Eustacia, if I were to die?"

"Don't press such a question, dear Clym."

"Well, it really is but a shadowy supposition; for unfortunately I am
going to live. I feel myself getting better. Thomasin, how long are
you going to stay at the inn, now that all this money has come to your
husband?"

"Another month or two, probably; until my illness is over. We cannot get
off till then. I think it will be a month or more."

"Yes, yes. Of course. Ah, Cousin Tamsie, you will get over your
trouble--one little month will take you through it, and bring something
to console you; but I shall never get over mine, and no consolation will
come!"

"Clym, you are unjust to yourself. Depend upon it, Aunt thought kindly
of you. I know that, if she had lived, you would have been reconciled
with her."

"But she didn't come to see me, though I asked her, before I married, if
she would come. Had she come, or had I gone there, she would never have
died saying, 'I am a broken-hearted woman, cast off by my son.' My door
has always been open to her--a welcome here has always awaited her. But
that she never came to see."

"You had better not talk any more now, Clym," said Eustacia faintly from
the other part of the room, for the scene was growing intolerable to
her.

"Let me talk to you instead for the little time I shall be here,"
Thomasin said soothingly. "Consider what a one-sided way you have of
looking at the matter, Clym. When she said that to the little boy you
had not found her and taken her into your arms; and it might have been
uttered in a moment of bitterness. It was rather like Aunt to say things
in haste. She sometimes used to speak so to me. Though she did not come
I am convinced that she thought of coming to see you. Do you suppose
a man's mother could live two or three months without one forgiving
thought? She forgave me; and why should she not have forgiven you?"

"You laboured to win her round; I did nothing. I, who was going to teach
people the higher secrets of happiness, did not know how to keep out of
that gross misery which the most untaught are wise enough to avoid."

"How did you get here tonight, Thomasin?" said Eustacia.

"Damon set me down at the end of the lane. He has driven into East Egdon
on business, and he will come and pick me up by-and-by."

Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had come,
and was waiting outside with his horse and gig.

"Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes," said Thomasin.

"I will run down myself," said Eustacia.

She went down. Wildeve had alighted, and was standing before the horse's
head when Eustacia opened the door. He did not turn for a moment,
thinking the comer Thomasin. Then he looked, startled ever so little,
and said one word: "Well?"

"I have not yet told him," she replied in a whisper.

"Then don't do so till he is well--it will be fatal. You are ill
yourself."

"I am wretched.... O Damon," she said, bursting into tears, "I--I can't
tell you how unhappy I am! I can hardly bear this. I can tell nobody of
my trouble--nobody knows of it but you."

"Poor girl!" said Wildeve, visibly affected at her distress, and at
last led on so far as to take her hand. "It is hard, when you have done
nothing to deserve it, that you should have got involved in such a web
as this. You were not made for these sad scenes. I am to blame most. If
I could only have saved you from it all!"

"But, Damon, please pray tell me what I must do? To sit by him hour
after hour, and hear him reproach himself as being the cause of her
death, and to know that I am the sinner, if any human being is at all,
drives me into cold despair. I don't know what to do. Should I tell him
or should I not tell him? I always am asking myself that. O, I want to
tell him; and yet I am afraid. If he finds it out he must surely kill me,
for nothing else will be in proportion to his feelings now. 'Beware the
fury of a patient man' sounds day by day in my ears as I watch him."

"Well, wait till he is better, and trust to chance. And when you tell,
you must only tell part--for his own sake."

"Which part should I keep back?"

Wildeve paused. "That I was in the house at the time," he said in a low
tone.

"Yes; it must be concealed, seeing what has been whispered. How much
easier are hasty actions than speeches that will excuse them!"

"If he were only to die--" Wildeve murmured.

"Do not think of it! I would not buy hope of immunity by so cowardly
a desire even if I hated him. Now I am going up to him again. Thomasin
bade me tell you she would be down in a few minutes. Good-bye."

She returned, and Thomasin soon appeared. When she was seated in the gig
with her husband, and the horse was turning to go off, Wildeve lifted
his eyes to the bedroom windows. Looking from one of them he could
discern a pale, tragic face watching him drive away. It was Eustacia's.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Clym takes his mother's death hard and falls sick, feeling guilty and remorseful at the memory of his mother's last words. He blames himself for her death, and neither Eustacia's sense nor Thomasin's sensibility can shake him from the conviction that he is responsible. When Thomasin comes to visit Clym, Wildeve comes later to call for his wife. Eustacia take the opportunity to tell him of her misery. Wildeve talks to her about Mrs. Yeobright's death and convinces Eustacia not to tell Clym that he had been in the house on that fateful day.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
2--A Lurid Light Breaks in upon a Darkened Understanding

Clym's grief became mitigated by wearing itself out. His strength
returned, and a month after the visit of Thomasin he might have been
seen walking about the garden. Endurance and despair, equanimity and
gloom, the tints of health and the pallor of death, mingled weirdly
in his face. He was now unnaturally silent upon all of the past that
related to his mother; and though Eustacia knew that he was thinking
of it none the less, she was only too glad to escape the topic ever to
bring it up anew. When his mind had been weaker his heart had led him to
speak out; but reason having now somewhat recovered itself he sank into
taciturnity.

One evening when he was thus standing in the garden, abstractedly
spudding up a weed with his stick, a bony figure turned the corner of
the house and came up to him.

"Christian, isn't it?" said Clym. "I am glad you have found me out. I
shall soon want you to go to Blooms-End and assist me in putting the
house in order. I suppose it is all locked up as I left it?"

"Yes, Mister Clym."

"Have you dug up the potatoes and other roots?"

"Yes, without a drop o' rain, thank God. But I was coming to tell 'ee of
something else which is quite different from what we have lately had in
the family. I am sent by the rich gentleman at the Woman, that we used
to call the landlord, to tell 'ee that Mrs. Wildeve is doing well of a
girl, which was born punctually at one o'clock at noon, or a few minutes
more or less; and 'tis said that expecting of this increase is what have
kept 'em there since they came into their money."

"And she is getting on well, you say?"

"Yes, sir. Only Mr. Wildeve is twanky because 'tisn't a boy--that's what
they say in the kitchen, but I was not supposed to notice that."

"Christian, now listen to me."

"Yes, sure, Mr. Yeobright."

"Did you see my mother the day before she died?"

"No, I did not."

Yeobright's face expressed disappointment.

"But I zeed her the morning of the same day she died."

Clym's look lighted up. "That's nearer still to my meaning," he said.

"Yes, I know 'twas the same day; for she said, 'I be going to see him,
Christian; so I shall not want any vegetables brought in for dinner.'"

"See whom?"

"See you. She was going to your house, you understand."

Yeobright regarded Christian with intense surprise. "Why did you never
mention this?" he said. "Are you sure it was my house she was coming
to?"

"O yes. I didn't mention it because I've never zeed you lately. And as
she didn't get there it was all nought, and nothing to tell."

"And I have been wondering why she should have walked in the heath on
that hot day! Well, did she say what she was coming for? It is a thing,
Christian, I am very anxious to know."

"Yes, Mister Clym. She didn't say it to me, though I think she did to
one here and there."

"Do you know one person to whom she spoke of it?"

"There is one man, please, sir, but I hope you won't mention my name
to him, as I have seen him in strange places, particular in dreams. One
night last summer he glared at me like Famine and Sword, and it made
me feel so low that I didn't comb out my few hairs for two days. He was
standing, as it might be, Mister Yeobright, in the middle of the path to
Mistover, and your mother came up, looking as pale--"

"Yes, when was that?"

"Last summer, in my dream."

"Pooh! Who's the man?"

"Diggory, the reddleman. He called upon her and sat with her the evening
before she set out to see you. I hadn't gone home from work when he came
up to the gate."

"I must see Venn--I wish I had known it before," said Clym anxiously. "I
wonder why he has not come to tell me?"

"He went out of Egdon Heath the next day, so would not be likely to know
you wanted him."

"Christian," said Clym, "you must go and find Venn. I am otherwise
engaged, or I would go myself. Find him at once, and tell him I want to
speak to him."

"I am a good hand at hunting up folk by day," said Christian, looking
dubiously round at the declining light; "but as to night-time, never is
such a bad hand as I, Mister Yeobright."

"Search the heath when you will, so that you bring him soon. Bring him
tomorrow, if you can."

Christian then departed. The morrow came, but no Venn. In the evening
Christian arrived, looking very weary. He had been searching all day,
and had heard nothing of the reddleman.

"Inquire as much as you can tomorrow without neglecting your work," said
Yeobright. "Don't come again till you have found him."

The next day Yeobright set out for the old house at Blooms-End, which,
with the garden, was now his own. His severe illness had hindered all
preparations for his removal thither; but it had become necessary that
he should go and overlook its contents, as administrator to his mother's
little property; for which purpose he decided to pass the next night on
the premises.

He journeyed onward, not quickly or decisively, but in the slow walk
of one who has been awakened from a stupefying sleep. It was early
afternoon when he reached the valley. The expression of the place, the
tone of the hour, were precisely those of many such occasions in days
gone by; and these antecedent similarities fostered the illusion that
she, who was there no longer, would come out to welcome him. The garden
gate was locked and the shutters were closed, just as he himself had
left them on the evening after the funeral. He unlocked the gate, and
found that a spider had already constructed a large web, tying the door
to the lintel, on the supposition that it was never to be opened again.
When he had entered the house and flung back the shutters he set about
his task of overhauling the cupboards and closets, burning papers, and
considering how best to arrange the place for Eustacia's reception,
until such time as he might be in a position to carry out his
long-delayed scheme, should that time ever arrive.

As he surveyed the rooms he felt strongly disinclined for the
alterations which would have to be made in the time-honoured furnishing
of his parents and grandparents, to suit Eustacia's modern ideas. The
gaunt oak-cased clock, with the picture of the Ascension on the
door panel and the Miraculous Draught of Fishes on the base; his
grandmother's corner cupboard with the glass door, through which the
spotted china was visible; the dumb-waiter; the wooden tea trays; the
hanging fountain with the brass tap--whither would these venerable
articles have to be banished?

He noticed that the flowers in the window had died for want of water,
and he placed them out upon the ledge, that they might be taken away.
While thus engaged he heard footsteps on the gravel without, and
somebody knocked at the door.

Yeobright opened it, and Venn was standing before him.

"Good morning," said the reddleman. "Is Mrs. Yeobright at home?"

Yeobright looked upon the ground. "Then you have not seen Christian or
any of the Egdon folks?" he said.

"No. I have only just returned after a long stay away. I called here the
day before I left."

"And you have heard nothing?"

"Nothing."

"My mother is--dead."

"Dead!" said Venn mechanically.

"Her home now is where I shouldn't mind having mine."

Venn regarded him, and then said, "If I didn't see your face I could
never believe your words. Have you been ill?"

"I had an illness."

"Well, the change! When I parted from her a month ago everything seemed
to say that she was going to begin a new life."

"And what seemed came true."

"You say right, no doubt. Trouble has taught you a deeper vein of talk
than mine. All I meant was regarding her life here. She has died too
soon."

"Perhaps through my living too long. I have had a bitter experience on
that score this last month, Diggory. But come in; I have been wanting to
see you."

He conducted the reddleman into the large room where the dancing had
taken place the previous Christmas, and they sat down in the settle
together. "There's the cold fireplace, you see," said Clym. "When that
half-burnt log and those cinders were alight she was alive! Little has
been changed here yet. I can do nothing. My life creeps like a snail."

"How came she to die?" said Venn.

Yeobright gave him some particulars of her illness and death, and
continued: "After this no kind of pain will ever seem more than an
indisposition to me. I began saying that I wanted to ask you something,
but I stray from subjects like a drunken man. I am anxious to know what
my mother said to you when she last saw you. You talked with her a long
time, I think?"

"I talked with her more than half an hour."

"About me?"

"Yes. And it must have been on account of what we said that she was on
the heath. Without question she was coming to see you."

"But why should she come to see me if she felt so bitterly against me?
There's the mystery."

"Yet I know she quite forgave 'ee."

"But, Diggory--would a woman, who had quite forgiven her son, say,
when she felt herself ill on the way to his house, that she was
broken-hearted because of his ill-usage? Never!"

"What I know is that she didn't blame you at all. She blamed herself for
what had happened, and only herself. I had it from her own lips."

"You had it from her lips that I had NOT ill-treated her; and at the
same time another had it from her lips that I HAD ill-treated her? My
mother was no impulsive woman who changed her opinion every hour without
reason. How can it be, Venn, that she should have told such different
stories in close succession?"

"I cannot say. It is certainly odd, when she had forgiven you, and had
forgiven your wife, and was going to see ye on purpose to make friends."

"If there was one thing wanting to bewilder me it was this
incomprehensible thing!... Diggory, if we, who remain alive, were only
allowed to hold conversation with the dead--just once, a bare minute,
even through a screen of iron bars, as with persons in prison--what we
might learn! How many who now ride smiling would hide their heads! And
this mystery--I should then be at the bottom of it at once. But the
grave has forever shut her in; and how shall it be found out now?"

No reply was returned by his companion, since none could be given; and
when Venn left, a few minutes later, Clym had passed from the dullness
of sorrow to the fluctuation of carking incertitude.

He continued in the same state all the afternoon. A bed was made up for
him in the same house by a neighbour, that he might not have to return
again the next day; and when he retired to rest in the deserted place it
was only to remain awake hour after hour thinking the same thoughts. How
to discover a solution to this riddle of death seemed a query of more
importance than highest problems of the living. There was housed in his
memory a vivid picture of the face of a little boy as he entered the
hovel where Clym's mother lay. The round eyes, eager gaze, the piping
voice which enunciated the words, had operated like stilettos on his
brain.

A visit to the boy suggested itself as a means of gleaning new
particulars; though it might be quite unproductive. To probe a child's
mind after the lapse of six weeks, not for facts which the child had
seen and understood, but to get at those which were in their nature
beyond him, did not promise much; yet when every obvious channel is
blocked we grope towards the small and obscure. There was nothing else
left to do; after that he would allow the enigma to drop into the abyss
of undiscoverable things.

It was about daybreak when he had reached this decision, and he at once
arose. He locked up the house and went out into the green patch which
merged in heather further on. In front of the white garden-palings the
path branched into three like a broad arrow. The road to the right
led to the Quiet Woman and its neighbourhood; the middle track led to
Mistover Knap; the left-hand track led over the hill to another part
of Mistover, where the child lived. On inclining into the latter path
Yeobright felt a creeping chilliness, familiar enough to most people,
and probably caused by the unsunned morning air. In after days he
thought of it as a thing of singular significance.

When Yeobright reached the cottage of Susan Nunsuch, the mother of the
boy he sought, he found that the inmates were not yet astir. But in
upland hamlets the transition from a-bed to abroad is surprisingly swift
and easy. There no dense partition of yawns and toilets divides humanity
by night from humanity by day. Yeobright tapped at the upper windowsill,
which he could reach with his walking stick; and in three or four
minutes the woman came down.

It was not till this moment that Clym recollected her to be the person
who had behaved so barbarously to Eustacia. It partly explained the
insuavity with which the woman greeted him. Moreover, the boy had been
ailing again; and Susan now, as ever since the night when he had
been pressed into Eustacia's service at the bonfire, attributed his
indispositions to Eustacia's influence as a witch. It was one of those
sentiments which lurk like moles underneath the visible surface of
manners, and may have been kept alive by Eustacia's entreaty to the
captain, at the time that he had intended to prosecute Susan for the
pricking in church, to let the matter drop; which he accordingly had
done.

Yeobright overcame his repugnance, for Susan had at least borne his
mother no ill-will. He asked kindly for the boy; but her manner did not
improve.

"I wish to see him," continued Yeobright, with some hesitation, "to ask
him if he remembers anything more of his walk with my mother than what
he has previously told."

She regarded him in a peculiar and criticizing manner. To anybody but a
half-blind man it would have said, "You want another of the knocks which
have already laid you so low."

She called the boy downstairs, asked Clym to sit down on a stool, and
continued, "Now, Johnny, tell Mr. Yeobright anything you can call to
mind."

"You have not forgotten how you walked with the poor lady on that hot
day?" said Clym.

"No," said the boy.

"And what she said to you?"

The boy repeated the exact words he had used on entering the hut.
Yeobright rested his elbow on the table and shaded his face with his
hand; and the mother looked as if she wondered how a man could want more
of what had stung him so deeply.

"She was going to Alderworth when you first met her?"

"No; she was coming away."

"That can't be."

"Yes; she walked along with me. I was coming away, too."

"Then where did you first see her?"

"At your house."

"Attend, and speak the truth!" said Clym sternly.

"Yes, sir; at your house was where I seed her first."

Clym started up, and Susan smiled in an expectant way which did not
embellish her face; it seemed to mean, "Something sinister is coming!"

"What did she do at my house?"

"She went and sat under the trees at the Devil's Bellows."

"Good God! this is all news to me!"

"You never told me this before?" said Susan.

"No, Mother; because I didn't like to tell 'ee I had been so far. I was
picking blackhearts, and went further than I meant."

"What did she do then?" said Yeobright.

"Looked at a man who came up and went into your house."

"That was myself--a furze-cutter, with brambles in his hand."

"No; 'twas not you. 'Twas a gentleman. You had gone in afore."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know."

"Now tell me what happened next."

"The poor lady went and knocked at your door, and the lady with black
hair looked out of the side window at her."

The boy's mother turned to Clym and said, "This is something you didn't
expect?"

Yeobright took no more notice of her than if he had been of stone. "Go
on, go on," he said hoarsely to the boy.

"And when she saw the young lady look out of the window the old lady
knocked again; and when nobody came she took up the furze-hook and
looked at it, and put it down again, and then she looked at the
faggot-bonds; and then she went away, and walked across to me, and
blowed her breath very hard, like this. We walked on together, she and
I, and I talked to her and she talked to me a bit, but not much, because
she couldn't blow her breath."

"O!" murmured Clym, in a low tone, and bowed his head. "Let's have
more," he said.

"She couldn't talk much, and she couldn't walk; and her face was, O so
queer!"

"How was her face?"

"Like yours is now."

The woman looked at Yeobright, and beheld him colourless, in a cold
sweat. "Isn't there meaning in it?" she said stealthily. "What do you
think of her now?"

"Silence!" said Clym fiercely. And, turning to the boy, "And then you
left her to die?"

"No," said the woman, quickly and angrily. "He did not leave her to die!
She sent him away. Whoever says he forsook her says what's not true."

"Trouble no more about that," answered Clym, with a quivering mouth.
"What he did is a trifle in comparison with what he saw. Door kept
shut, did you say? Kept shut, she looking out of window? Good heart of
God!--what does it mean?"

The child shrank away from the gaze of his questioner.

"He said so," answered the mother, "and Johnny's a God-fearing boy and
tells no lies."

"'Cast off by my son!' No, by my best life, dear mother, it is not so!
But by your son's, your son's--May all murderesses get the torment they
deserve!"

With these words Yeobright went forth from the little dwelling. The
pupils of his eyes, fixed steadfastly on blankness, were vaguely lit
with an icy shine; his mouth had passed into the phase more or less
imaginatively rendered in studies of Oedipus. The strangest deeds were
possible to his mood. But they were not possible to his situation.
Instead of there being before him the pale face of Eustacia, and a
masculine shape unknown, there was only the imperturbable countenance
of the heath, which, having defied the cataclysmal onsets of centuries,
reduced to insignificance by its seamed and antique features the wildest
turmoil of a single man.

</CHAPTER>
<CHAPTER>
3--Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning

A consciousness of a vast impassivity in all which lay around him took
possession even of Yeobright in his wild walk towards Alderworth. He had
once before felt in his own person this overpowering of the fervid by
the inanimate; but then it had tended to enervate a passion far sweeter
than that which at present pervaded him. It was once when he stood
parting from Eustacia in the moist still levels beyond the hills.

But dismissing all this he went onward home, and came to the front of
his house. The blinds of Eustacia's bedroom were still closely drawn,
for she was no early riser. All the life visible was in the shape of
a solitary thrush cracking a small snail upon the door-stone for his
breakfast, and his tapping seemed a loud noise in the general silence
which prevailed; but on going to the door Clym found it unfastened, the
young girl who attended upon Eustacia being astir in the back part of
the premises. Yeobright entered and went straight to his wife's room.

The noise of his arrival must have aroused her, for when he opened the
door she was standing before the looking glass in her nightdress, the
ends of her hair gathered into one hand, with which she was coiling the
whole mass round her head, previous to beginning toilette operations.
She was not a woman given to speaking first at a meeting, and she
allowed Clym to walk across in silence, without turning her head.
He came behind her, and she saw his face in the glass. It was ashy,
haggard, and terrible. Instead of starting towards him in sorrowful
surprise, as even Eustacia, undemonstrative wife as she was, would have
done in days before she burdened herself with a secret, she remained
motionless, looking at him in the glass. And while she looked the
carmine flush with which warmth and sound sleep had suffused her cheeks
and neck dissolved from view, and the deathlike pallor in his face
flew across into hers. He was close enough to see this, and the sight
instigated his tongue.

"You know what is the matter," he said huskily. "I see it in your face."

Her hand relinquished the rope of hair and dropped to her side, and the
pile of tresses, no longer supported, fell from the crown of her head
about her shoulders and over the white nightgown. She made no reply.

"Speak to me," said Yeobright peremptorily.

The blanching process did not cease in her, and her lips now became as
white as her face. She turned to him and said, "Yes, Clym, I'll speak to
you. Why do you return so early? Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, you can listen to me. It seems that my wife is not very well?"

"Why?"

"Your face, my dear; your face. Or perhaps it is the pale morning light
which takes your colour away? Now I am going to reveal a secret to you.
Ha-ha!"

"O, that is ghastly!"

"What?"

"Your laugh."

"There's reason for ghastliness. Eustacia, you have held my happiness in
the hollow of your hand, and like a devil you have dashed it down!"

She started back from the dressing-table, retreated a few steps from
him, and looked him in the face. "Ah! you think to frighten me," she
said, with a slight laugh. "Is it worth while? I am undefended, and
alone."

"How extraordinary!"

"What do you mean?"

"As there is ample time I will tell you, though you know well enough.
I mean that it is extraordinary that you should be alone in my absence.
Tell me, now, where is he who was with you on the afternoon of the
thirty-first of August? Under the bed? Up the chimney?"

A shudder overcame her and shook the light fabric of her nightdress
throughout. "I do not remember dates so exactly," she said. "I cannot
recollect that anybody was with me besides yourself."

"The day I mean," said Yeobright, his voice growing louder and harsher,
"was the day you shut the door against my mother and killed her. O, it
is too much--too bad!" He leant over the footpiece of the bedstead for
a few moments, with his back towards her; then rising again--"Tell me,
tell me! tell me--do you hear?" he cried, rushing up to her and seizing
her by the loose folds of her sleeve.

The superstratum of timidity which often overlies those who are daring
and defiant at heart had been passed through, and the mettlesome
substance of the woman was reached. The red blood inundated her face,
previously so pale.

"What are you going to do?" she said in a low voice, regarding him with
a proud smile. "You will not alarm me by holding on so; but it would be
a pity to tear my sleeve."

Instead of letting go he drew her closer to him. "Tell me the
particulars of--my mother's death," he said in a hard, panting whisper;
"or--I'll--I'll--"

"Clym," she answered slowly, "do you think you dare do anything to me
that I dare not bear? But before you strike me listen. You will get
nothing from me by a blow, even though it should kill me, as it probably
will. But perhaps you do not wish me to speak--killing may be all you
mean?"

"Kill you! Do you expect it?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"No less degree of rage against me will match your previous grief for
her."

"Phew--I shall not kill you," he said contemptuously, as if under a
sudden change of purpose. "I did think of it; but--I shall not. That
would be making a martyr of you, and sending you to where she is; and
I would keep you away from her till the universe come to an end, if I
could."

"I almost wish you would kill me," said she with gloomy bitterness.
"It is with no strong desire, I assure you, that I play the part I have
lately played on earth. You are no blessing, my husband."

"You shut the door--you looked out of the window upon her--you had a
man in the house with you--you sent her away to die. The inhumanity--the
treachery--I will not touch you--stand away from me--and confess every
word!"

"Never! I'll hold my tongue like the very death that I don't mind
meeting, even though I can clear myself of half you believe by speaking.
Yes. I will! Who of any dignity would take the trouble to clear cobwebs
from a wild man's mind after such language as this? No; let him go on,
and think his narrow thoughts, and run his head into the mire. I have
other cares."

"'Tis too much--but I must spare you."

"Poor charity."

"By my wretched soul you sting me, Eustacia! I can keep it up, and hotly
too. Now, then, madam, tell me his name!"

"Never, I am resolved."

"How often does he write to you? Where does he put his letters--when
does he meet you? Ah, his letters! Do you tell me his name?"

"I do not."

"Then I'll find it myself." His eyes had fallen upon a small desk that
stood near, on which she was accustomed to write her letters. He went to
it. It was locked.

"Unlock this!"

"You have no right to say it. That's mine."

Without another word he seized the desk and dashed it to the floor. The
hinge burst open, and a number of letters tumbled out.

"Stay!" said Eustacia, stepping before him with more excitement than she
had hitherto shown.

"Come, come! stand away! I must see them."

She looked at the letters as they lay, checked her feeling and moved
indifferently aside; when he gathered them up, and examined them.

By no stretch of meaning could any but a harmless construction be placed
upon a single one of the letters themselves. The solitary exception was
an empty envelope directed to her, and the handwriting was Wildeve's.
Yeobright held it up. Eustacia was doggedly silent.

"Can you read, madam? Look at this envelope. Doubtless we shall find
more soon, and what was inside them. I shall no doubt be gratified by
learning in good time what a well-finished and full-blown adept in a
certain trade my lady is."

"Do you say it to me--do you?" she gasped.

He searched further, but found nothing more. "What was in this letter?"
he said.

"Ask the writer. Am I your hound that you should talk to me in this
way?"

"Do you brave me? do you stand me out, mistress? Answer. Don't look at
me with those eyes if you would bewitch me again! Sooner than that I
die. You refuse to answer?"

"I wouldn't tell you after this, if I were as innocent as the sweetest
babe in heaven!"

"Which you are not."

"Certainly I am not absolutely," she replied. "I have not done what
you suppose; but if to have done no harm at all is the only innocence
recognized, I am beyond forgiveness. But I require no help from your
conscience."

"You can resist, and resist again! Instead of hating you I could, I
think, mourn for and pity you, if you were contrite, and would confess
all. Forgive you I never can. I don't speak of your lover--I will give
you the benefit of the doubt in that matter, for it only affects me
personally. But the other--had you half-killed me, had it been that you
wilfully took the sight away from these feeble eyes of mine, I could
have forgiven you. But THAT'S too much for nature!"

"Say no more. I will do without your pity. But I would have saved you
from uttering what you will regret."

"I am going away now. I shall leave you."

"You need not go, as I am going myself. You will keep just as far away
from me by staying here."

"Call her to mind--think of her--what goodness there was in her--it
showed in every line of her face! Most women, even when but slightly
annoyed, show a flicker of evil in some curl of the mouth or some corner
of the cheek; but as for her, never in her angriest moments was there
anything malicious in her look. She was angered quickly, but she forgave
just as readily, and underneath her pride there was the meekness of a
child. What came of it?--what cared you? You hated her just as she was
learning to love you. O! couldn't you see what was best for you, but
must bring a curse upon me, and agony and death upon her, by doing that
cruel deed! What was the fellow's name who was keeping you company and
causing you to add cruelty to her to your wrong to me? Was it Wildeve?
Was it poor Thomasin's husband? Heaven, what wickedness! Lost your
voice, have you? It is natural after detection of that most noble
trick.... Eustacia, didn't any tender thought of your own mother lead you
to think of being gentle to mine at such a time of weariness? Did not
one grain of pity enter your heart as she turned away? Think what a vast
opportunity was then lost of beginning a forgiving and honest course.
Why did not you kick him out, and let her in, and say I'll be an honest
wife and a noble woman from this hour? Had I told you to go and quench
eternally our last flickering chance of happiness here you could have
done no worse. Well, she's asleep now; and have you a hundred gallants,
neither they nor you can insult her any more."

"You exaggerate fearfully," she said in a faint, weary voice; "but I
cannot enter into my defence--it is not worth doing. You are nothing to
me in future, and the past side of the story may as well remain untold.
I have lost all through you, but I have not complained. Your blunders
and misfortunes may have been a sorrow to you, but they have been a
wrong to me. All persons of refinement have been scared away from me
since I sank into the mire of marriage. Is this your cherishing--to
put me into a hut like this, and keep me like the wife of a hind? You
deceived me--not by words, but by appearances, which are less seen
through than words. But the place will serve as well as any other--as
somewhere to pass from--into my grave." Her words were smothered in her
throat, and her head drooped down.

"I don't know what you mean by that. Am I the cause of your sin?"
(Eustacia made a trembling motion towards him.) "What, you can begin to
shed tears and offer me your hand? Good God! can you? No, not I. I'll
not commit the fault of taking that." (The hand she had offered dropped
nervelessly, but the tears continued flowing.) "Well, yes, I'll take
it, if only for the sake of my own foolish kisses that were wasted there
before I knew what I cherished. How bewitched I was! How could there be
any good in a woman that everybody spoke ill of?"

"O, O, O!" she cried, breaking down at last; and, shaking with sobs
which choked her, she sank upon her knees. "O, will you have done! O,
you are too relentless--there's a limit to the cruelty of savages! I
have held out long--but you crush me down. I beg for mercy--I cannot
bear this any longer--it is inhuman to go further with this! If I
had--killed your--mother with my own hand--I should not deserve such
a scourging to the bone as this. O, O! God have mercy upon a miserable
woman!... You have beaten me in this game--I beg you to stay your hand in
pity!... I confess that I--wilfully did not undo the door the first time
she knocked--but--I should have unfastened it the second--if I had
not thought you had gone to do it yourself. When I found you had not I
opened it, but she was gone. That's the extent of my crime--towards HER.
Best natures commit bad faults sometimes, don't they?--I think they do.
Now I will leave you--for ever and ever!"

"Tell all, and I WILL pity you. Was the man in the house with you
Wildeve?"

"I cannot tell," she said desperately through her sobbing. "Don't insist
further--I cannot tell. I am going from this house. We cannot both stay
here."

"You need not go--I will go. You can stay here."

"No, I will dress, and then I will go."

"Where?"

"Where I came from, or ELSEWHERE."

She hastily dressed herself, Yeobright moodily walking up and down the
room the whole of the time. At last all her things were on. Her little
hands quivered so violently as she held them to her chin to fasten her
bonnet that she could not tie the strings, and after a few moments she
relinquished the attempt. Seeing this he moved forward and said, "Let me
tie them."

She assented in silence, and lifted her chin. For once at least in her
life she was totally oblivious of the charm of her attitude. But he
was not, and he turned his eyes aside, that he might not be tempted to
softness.

The strings were tied; she turned from him. "Do you still prefer going
away yourself to my leaving you?" he inquired again.

"I do."

"Very well--let it be. And when you will confess to the man I may pity
you."

She flung her shawl about her and went downstairs, leaving him standing
in the room.

Eustacia had not long been gone when there came a knock at the door of
the bedroom; and Yeobright said, "Well?"

It was the servant; and she replied, "Somebody from Mrs. Wildeve's
have called to tell 'ee that the mis'ess and the baby are getting on
wonderful well, and the baby's name is to be Eustacia Clementine." And
the girl retired.

"What a mockery!" said Clym. "This unhappy marriage of mine to be
perpetuated in that child's name!"

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Christian Cantle comes to Alderworth to announce the birth of Thomasin's child. Clym, having somewhat recovered from his illness, questions Christian and learns that Mrs. Yeobright had planned to visit his house and that Venn had spoken to her on the day of her death. Clym is eager to speak with the reddleman, who soon calls at Alderworth. Venn tells Clym that his mother had expressed her desire to make things up with her son, a fact that seems to conflict with her last statement reported by Johnny Nonesuch. Then Johnny clarifies matters. He tells that Mrs. Yeobright had, in fact, been coming from Alderworth when he met her, that a man had been admitted into the house before she reached there, and that a woman had looked out of the window, but did not let her in. Upon hearing this report, Clym is in a towering rage. He accuses Eustacia of wickedness to his mother and infidelity to himself. She replies as steadily as possible, trying to defend herself. She can finally bear no more and leaves the house.