Chapter: <CHAPTER>
7--The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends


He in the meantime had aroused himself from sleep, sat up, and looked
around. Eustacia was sitting in a chair hard by him, and though she held
a book in her hand she had not looked into it for some time.

"Well, indeed!" said Clym, brushing his eyes with his hands. "How
soundly I have slept! I have had such a tremendous dream, too--one I
shall never forget."

"I thought you had been dreaming," said she.

"Yes. It was about my mother. I dreamt that I took you to her house to
make up differences, and when we got there we couldn't get in, though
she kept on crying to us for help. However, dreams are dreams. What
o'clock is it, Eustacia?"

"Half-past two."

"So late, is it? I didn't mean to stay so long. By the time I have had
something to eat it will be after three."

"Ann is not come back from the village, and I thought I would let you
sleep on till she returned."

Clym went to the window and looked out. Presently he said, musingly,
"Week after week passes, and yet Mother does not come. I thought I
should have heard something from her long before this."

Misgiving, regret, fear, resolution, ran their swift course of
expression in Eustacia's dark eyes. She was face to face with
a monstrous difficulty, and she resolved to get free of it by
postponement.

"I must certainly go to Blooms-End soon," he continued, "and I think I
had better go alone." He picked up his leggings and gloves, threw them
down again, and added, "As dinner will be so late today I will not go
back to the heath, but work in the garden till the evening, and then,
when it will be cooler, I will walk to Blooms-End. I am quite sure that
if I make a little advance Mother will be willing to forget all. It will
be rather late before I can get home, as I shall not be able to do the
distance either way in less than an hour and a half. But you will not
mind for one evening, dear? What are you thinking of to make you look so
abstracted?"

"I cannot tell you," she said heavily. "I wish we didn't live here,
Clym. The world seems all wrong in this place."

"Well--if we make it so. I wonder if Thomasin has been to Blooms-End
lately. I hope so. But probably not, as she is, I believe, expecting to
be confined in a month or so. I wish I had thought of that before. Poor
Mother must indeed be very lonely."

"I don't like you going tonight."

"Why not tonight?"

"Something may be said which will terribly injure me."

"My mother is not vindictive," said Clym, his colour faintly rising.

"But I wish you would not go," Eustacia repeated in a low tone. "If you
agree not to go tonight I promise to go by myself to her house tomorrow,
and make it up with her, and wait till you fetch me."

"Why do you want to do that at this particular time, when at every
previous time that I have proposed it you have refused?"

"I cannot explain further than that I should like to see her alone
before you go," she answered, with an impatient move of her head, and
looking at him with an anxiety more frequently seen upon those of a
sanguine temperament than upon such as herself.

"Well, it is very odd that just when I had decided to go myself you
should want to do what I proposed long ago. If I wait for you to go
tomorrow another day will be lost; and I know I shall be unable to rest
another night without having been. I want to get this settled, and will.
You must visit her afterwards--it will be all the same."

"I could even go with you now?"

"You could scarcely walk there and back without a longer rest than I
shall take. No, not tonight, Eustacia."

"Let it be as you say, then," she replied in the quiet way of one who,
though willing to ward off evil consequences by a mild effort, would let
events fall out as they might sooner than wrestle hard to direct them.

Clym then went into the garden; and a thoughtful languor stole
over Eustacia for the remainder of the afternoon, which her husband
attributed to the heat of the weather.

In the evening he set out on the journey. Although the heat of summer
was yet intense the days had considerably shortened, and before he had
advanced a mile on his way all the heath purples, browns, and greens
had merged in a uniform dress without airiness or graduation, and broken
only by touches of white where the little heaps of clean quartz sand
showed the entrance to a rabbit burrow, or where the white flints of a
footpath lay like a thread over the slopes. In almost every one of
the isolated and stunted thorns which grew here and there a nighthawk
revealed his presence by whirring like the clack of a mill as long as he
could hold his breath, then stopping, flapping his wings, wheeling round
the bush, alighting, and after a silent interval of listening beginning
to whirr again. At each brushing of Clym's feet white millermoths
flew into the air just high enough to catch upon their dusty wings the
mellowed light from the west, which now shone across the depressions and
levels of the ground without falling thereon to light them up.

Yeobright walked on amid this quiet scene with a hope that all would
soon be well. Three miles on he came to a spot where a soft perfume was
wafted across his path, and he stood still for a moment to inhale the
familiar scent. It was the place at which, four hours earlier,
his mother had sat down exhausted on the knoll covered with
shepherd's-thyme. While he stood a sound between a breathing and a moan
suddenly reached his ears.

He looked to where the sound came from; but nothing appeared there save
the verge of the hillock stretching against the sky in an unbroken line.
He moved a few steps in that direction, and now he perceived a recumbent
figure almost close to his feet.

Among the different possibilities as to the person's individuality there
did not for a moment occur to Yeobright that it might be one of his own
family. Sometimes furze-cutters had been known to sleep out of doors at
these times, to save a long journey homeward and back again; but
Clym remembered the moan and looked closer, and saw that the form was
feminine; and a distress came over him like cold air from a cave. But he
was not absolutely certain that the woman was his mother till he stooped
and beheld her face, pallid, and with closed eyes.

His breath went, as it were, out of his body and the cry of anguish
which would have escaped him died upon his lips. During the momentary
interval that elapsed before he became conscious that something must be
done all sense of time and place left him, and it seemed as if he and
his mother were as when he was a child with her many years ago on this
heath at hours similar to the present. Then he awoke to activity; and
bending yet lower he found that she still breathed, and that her breath
though feeble was regular, except when disturbed by an occasional gasp.

"O, what is it! Mother, are you very ill--you are not dying?" he cried,
pressing his lips to her face. "I am your Clym. How did you come here?
What does it all mean?"

At that moment the chasm in their lives which his love for Eustacia had
caused was not remembered by Yeobright, and to him the present joined
continuously with that friendly past that had been their experience
before the division.

She moved her lips, appeared to know him, but could not speak; and then
Clym strove to consider how best to move her, as it would be necessary
to get her away from the spot before the dews were intense. He was
able-bodied, and his mother was thin. He clasped his arms round her,
lifted her a little, and said, "Does that hurt you?"

She shook her head, and he lifted her up; then, at a slow pace, went
onward with his load. The air was now completely cool; but whenever he
passed over a sandy patch of ground uncarpeted with vegetation there was
reflected from its surface into his face the heat which it had imbibed
during the day. At the beginning of his undertaking he had thought
but little of the distance which yet would have to be traversed before
Blooms-End could be reached; but though he had slept that afternoon he
soon began to feel the weight of his burden. Thus he proceeded, like
Aeneas with his father; the bats circling round his head, nightjars
flapping their wings within a yard of his face, and not a human being
within call.

While he was yet nearly a mile from the house his mother exhibited signs
of restlessness under the constraint of being borne along, as if his
arms were irksome to her. He lowered her upon his knees and looked
around. The point they had now reached, though far from any road, was
not more than a mile from the Blooms-End cottages occupied by Fairway,
Sam, Humphrey, and the Cantles. Moreover, fifty yards off stood a hut,
built of clods and covered with thin turves, but now entirely disused.
The simple outline of the lonely shed was visible, and thither he
determined to direct his steps. As soon as he arrived he laid her down
carefully by the entrance, and then ran and cut with his pocketknife
an armful of the dryest fern. Spreading this within the shed, which was
entirely open on one side, he placed his mother thereon; then he ran
with all his might towards the dwelling of Fairway.

Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, disturbed only by the broken
breathing of the sufferer, when moving figures began to animate the
line between heath and sky. In a few moments Clym arrived with Fairway,
Humphrey, and Susan Nunsuch; Olly Dowden, who had chanced to be at
Fairway's, Christian and Grandfer Cantle following helter-skelter
behind. They had brought a lantern and matches, water, a pillow, and a
few other articles which had occurred to their minds in the hurry of the
moment. Sam had been despatched back again for brandy, and a boy brought
Fairway's pony, upon which he rode off to the nearest medical man, with
directions to call at Wildeve's on his way, and inform Thomasin that her
aunt was unwell.

Sam and the brandy soon arrived, and it was administered by the light of
the lantern; after which she became sufficiently conscious to signify
by signs that something was wrong with her foot. Olly Dowden at length
understood her meaning, and examined the foot indicated. It was swollen
and red. Even as they watched the red began to assume a more livid
colour, in the midst of which appeared a scarlet speck, smaller than a
pea, and it was found to consist of a drop of blood, which rose above
the smooth flesh of her ankle in a hemisphere.

"I know what it is," cried Sam. "She has been stung by an adder!"

"Yes," said Clym instantly. "I remember when I was a child seeing just
such a bite. O, my poor mother!"

"It was my father who was bit," said Sam. "And there's only one way to
cure it. You must rub the place with the fat of other adders, and the
only way to get that is by frying them. That's what they did for him."

"'Tis an old remedy," said Clym distrustfully, "and I have doubts about
it. But we can do nothing else till the doctor comes."

"'Tis a sure cure," said Olly Dowden, with emphasis. "I've used it when
I used to go out nursing."

"Then we must pray for daylight, to catch them," said Clym gloomily.

"I will see what I can do," said Sam.

He took a green hazel which he had used as a walking stick, split it at
the end, inserted a small pebble, and with the lantern in his hand
went out into the heath. Clym had by this time lit a small fire, and
despatched Susan Nunsuch for a frying pan. Before she had returned Sam
came in with three adders, one briskly coiling and uncoiling in the
cleft of the stick, and the other two hanging dead across it.

"I have only been able to get one alive and fresh as he ought to be,"
said Sam. "These limp ones are two I killed today at work; but as they
don't die till the sun goes down they can't be very stale meat."

The live adder regarded the assembled group with a sinister look in its
small black eye, and the beautiful brown and jet pattern on its back
seemed to intensify with indignation. Mrs. Yeobright saw the creature,
and the creature saw her--she quivered throughout, and averted her eyes.

"Look at that," murmured Christian Cantle. "Neighbours, how do we know
but that something of the old serpent in God's garden, that gied the
apple to the young woman with no clothes, lives on in adders and snakes
still? Look at his eye--for all the world like a villainous sort of
black currant. 'Tis to be hoped he can't ill-wish us! There's folks in
heath who've been overlooked already. I will never kill another adder as
long as I live."

"Well, 'tis right to be afeard of things, if folks can't help it," said
Grandfer Cantle. "'Twould have saved me many a brave danger in my time."

"I fancy I heard something outside the shed," said Christian. "I wish
troubles would come in the daytime, for then a man could show his
courage, and hardly beg for mercy of the most broomstick old woman he
should see, if he was a brave man, and able to run out of her sight!"

"Even such an ignorant fellow as I should know better than do that,"
said Sam.

"Well, there's calamities where we least expect it, whether or no.
Neighbours, if Mrs. Yeobright were to die, d'ye think we should be took
up and tried for the manslaughter of a woman?"

"No, they couldn't bring it in as that," said Sam, "unless they could
prove we had been poachers at some time of our lives. But she'll fetch
round."

"Now, if I had been stung by ten adders I should hardly have lost a
day's work for't," said Grandfer Cantle. "Such is my spirit when I am on
my mettle. But perhaps 'tis natural in a man trained for war. Yes, I've
gone through a good deal; but nothing ever came amiss to me after I
joined the Locals in four." He shook his head and smiled at a mental
picture of himself in uniform. "I was always first in the most
galliantest scrapes in my younger days!"

"I suppose that was because they always used to put the biggest fool
afore," said Fairway from the fire, beside which he knelt, blowing it
with his breath.

"D'ye think so, Timothy?" said Grandfer Cantle, coming forward to
Fairway's side with sudden depression in his face. "Then a man may feel
for years that he is good solid company, and be wrong about himself
after all?"

"Never mind that question, Grandfer. Stir your stumps and get some more
sticks. 'Tis very nonsense of an old man to prattle so when life and
death's in mangling."

"Yes, yes," said Grandfer Cantle, with melancholy conviction. "Well,
this is a bad night altogether for them that have done well in their
time; and if I were ever such a dab at the hautboy or tenor viol, I
shouldn't have the heart to play tunes upon 'em now."

Susan now arrived with the frying pan, when the live adder was killed
and the heads of the three taken off. The remainders, being cut into
lengths and split open, were tossed into the pan, which began hissing
and crackling over the fire. Soon a rill of clear oil trickled from the
carcases, whereupon Clym dipped the corner of his handkerchief into the
liquid and anointed the wound.



<CHAPTER>
</CHAPTER>
8--Eustacia Hears of Good Fortune, and Beholds Evil


In the meantime Eustacia, left alone in her cottage at Alderworth,
had become considerably depressed by the posture of affairs. The
consequences which might result from Clym's discovery that his mother
had been turned from his door that day were likely to be disagreeable,
and this was a quality in events which she hated as much as the
dreadful.

To be left to pass the evening by herself was irksome to her at any
time, and this evening it was more irksome than usual by reason of
the excitements of the past hours. The two visits had stirred her into
restlessness. She was not wrought to any great pitch of uneasiness by
the probability of appearing in an ill light in the discussion between
Clym and his mother, but she was wrought to vexation, and her slumbering
activities were quickened to the extent of wishing that she had opened
the door. She had certainly believed that Clym was awake, and the excuse
would be an honest one as far as it went; but nothing could save her
from censure in refusing to answer at the first knock. Yet, instead of
blaming herself for the issue she laid the fault upon the shoulders
of some indistinct, colossal Prince of the World, who had framed her
situation and ruled her lot.

At this time of the year it was pleasanter to walk by night than by day,
and when Clym had been absent about an hour she suddenly resolved to go
out in the direction of Blooms-End, on the chance of meeting him on his
return. When she reached the garden gate she heard wheels approaching,
and looking round beheld her grandfather coming up in his car.

"I can't stay a minute, thank ye," he answered to her greeting. "I am
driving to East Egdon; but I came round here just to tell you the news.
Perhaps you have heard--about Mr. Wildeve's fortune?"

"No," said Eustacia blankly.

"Well, he has come into a fortune of eleven thousand pounds--uncle died
in Canada, just after hearing that all his family, whom he was sending
home, had gone to the bottom in the Cassiopeia; so Wildeve has come into
everything, without in the least expecting it."

Eustacia stood motionless awhile. "How long has he known of this?" she
asked.

"Well, it was known to him this morning early, for I knew it at ten
o'clock, when Charley came back. Now, he is what I call a lucky man.
What a fool you were, Eustacia!"

"In what way?" she said, lifting her eyes in apparent calmness.

"Why, in not sticking to him when you had him."

"Had him, indeed!"

"I did not know there had ever been anything between you till lately;
and, faith, I should have been hot and strong against it if I had known;
but since it seems that there was some sniffing between ye, why the
deuce didn't you stick to him?"

Eustacia made no reply, but she looked as if she could say as much upon
that subject as he if she chose.

"And how is your poor purblind husband?" continued the old man. "Not a
bad fellow either, as far as he goes."

"He is quite well."

"It is a good thing for his cousin what-d'ye-call-her? By George, you
ought to have been in that galley, my girl! Now I must drive on. Do you
want any assistance? What's mine is yours, you know."

"Thank you, Grandfather, we are not in want at present," she said
coldly. "Clym cuts furze, but he does it mostly as a useful pastime,
because he can do nothing else."

"He is paid for his pastime, isn't he? Three shillings a hundred, I
heard."

"Clym has money," she said, colouring, "but he likes to earn a little."

"Very well; good night." And the captain drove on.

When her grandfather was gone Eustacia went on her way mechanically;
but her thoughts were no longer concerning her mother-in-law and Clym.
Wildeve, notwithstanding his complaints against his fate, had been
seized upon by destiny and placed in the sunshine once more. Eleven
thousand pounds! From every Egdon point of view he was a rich man. In
Eustacia's eyes, too, it was an ample sum--one sufficient to supply
those wants of hers which had been stigmatized by Clym in his more
austere moods as vain and luxurious. Though she was no lover of money
she loved what money could bring; and the new accessories she
imagined around him clothed Wildeve with a great deal of interest. She
recollected now how quietly well-dressed he had been that morning--he
had probably put on his newest suit, regardless of damage by briars and
thorns. And then she thought of his manner towards herself.

"O I see it, I see it," she said. "How much he wishes he had me now,
that he might give me all I desire!"

In recalling the details of his glances and words--at the time scarcely
regarded--it became plain to her how greatly they had been dictated
by his knowledge of this new event. "Had he been a man to bear a jilt
ill-will he would have told me of his good fortune in crowing tones;
instead of doing that he mentioned not a word, in deference to my
misfortunes, and merely implied that he loved me still, as one superior
to him."

Wildeve's silence that day on what had happened to him was just the kind
of behaviour calculated to make an impression on such a woman. Those
delicate touches of good taste were, in fact, one of the strong points
in his demeanour towards the other sex. The peculiarity of Wildeve was
that, while at one time passionate, upbraiding, and resentful towards a
woman, at another he would treat her with such unparalleled grace as
to make previous neglect appear as no discourtesy, injury as no insult,
interference as a delicate attention, and the ruin of her honour as
excess of chivalry. This man, whose admiration today Eustacia had
disregarded, whose good wishes she had scarcely taken the trouble to
accept, whom she had shown out of the house by the back door, was
the possessor of eleven thousand pounds--a man of fair professional
education, and one who had served his articles with a civil engineer.

So intent was Eustacia upon Wildeve's fortunes that she forgot how much
closer to her own course were those of Clym; and instead of walking on
to meet him at once she sat down upon a stone. She was disturbed in her
reverie by a voice behind, and turning her head beheld the old lover and
fortunate inheritor of wealth immediately beside her.

She remained sitting, though the fluctuation in her look might have told
any man who knew her so well as Wildeve that she was thinking of him.

"How did you come here?" she said in her clear low tone. "I thought you
were at home."

"I went on to the village after leaving your garden; and now I have come
back again--that's all. Which way are you walking, may I ask?"

She waved her hand in the direction of Blooms-End. "I am going to meet
my husband. I think I may possibly have got into trouble whilst you were
with me today."

"How could that be?"

"By not letting in Mrs. Yeobright."

"I hope that visit of mine did you no harm."

"None. It was not your fault," she said quietly.

By this time she had risen; and they involuntarily sauntered on
together, without speaking, for two or three minutes; when Eustacia
broke silence by saying, "I assume I must congratulate you."

"On what? O yes; on my eleven thousand pounds, you mean. Well, since I
didn't get something else, I must be content with getting that."

"You seem very indifferent about it. Why didn't you tell me today when
you came?" she said in the tone of a neglected person. "I heard of it
quite by accident."

"I did mean to tell you," said Wildeve. "But I--well, I will speak
frankly--I did not like to mention it when I saw, Eustacia, that your
star was not high. The sight of a man lying wearied out with hard work,
as your husband lay, made me feel that to brag of my own fortune to you
would be greatly out of place. Yet, as you stood there beside him, I
could not help feeling too that in many respects he was a richer man
than I."

At this Eustacia said, with slumbering mischievousness, "What, would you
exchange with him--your fortune for me?"

"I certainly would," said Wildeve.

"As we are imagining what is impossible and absurd, suppose we change
the subject?"

"Very well; and I will tell you of my plans for the future, if you care
to hear them. I shall permanently invest nine thousand pounds, keep one
thousand as ready money, and with the remaining thousand travel for a
year or so."

"Travel? What a bright idea! Where will you go to?"

"From here to Paris, where I shall pass the winter and spring. Then I
shall go to Italy, Greece, Egypt, and Palestine, before the hot weather
comes on. In the summer I shall go to America; and then, by a plan not
yet settled, I shall go to Australia and round to India. By that time
I shall have begun to have had enough of it. Then I shall probably come
back to Paris again, and there I shall stay as long as I can afford to."

"Back to Paris again," she murmured in a voice that was nearly a sigh.
She had never once told Wildeve of the Parisian desires which Clym's
description had sown in her; yet here was he involuntarily in a position
to gratify them. "You think a good deal of Paris?" she added.

"Yes. In my opinion it is the central beauty-spot of the world."

"And in mine! And Thomasin will go with you?"

"Yes, if she cares to. She may prefer to stay at home."

"So you will be going about, and I shall be staying here!"

"I suppose you will. But we know whose fault that is."

"I am not blaming you," she said quickly.

"Oh, I thought you were. If ever you SHOULD be inclined to blame me,
think of a certain evening by Rainbarrow, when you promised to meet me
and did not. You sent me a letter; and my heart ached to read that as
I hope yours never will. That was one point of divergence. I then did
something in haste.... But she is a good woman, and I will say no more."

"I know that the blame was on my side that time," said Eustacia. "But it
had not always been so. However, it is my misfortune to be too sudden in
feeling. O, Damon, don't reproach me any more--I can't bear that."

They went on silently for a distance of two or three miles, when
Eustacia said suddenly, "Haven't you come out of your way, Mr. Wildeve?"

"My way is anywhere tonight. I will go with you as far as the hill on
which we can see Blooms-End, as it is getting late for you to be alone."

"Don't trouble. I am not obliged to be out at all. I think I would
rather you did not accompany me further. This sort of thing would have
an odd look if known."

"Very well, I will leave you." He took her hand unexpectedly, and kissed
it--for the first time since her marriage. "What light is that on the
hill?" he added, as it were to hide the caress.

She looked, and saw a flickering firelight proceeding from the open side
of a hovel a little way before them. The hovel, which she had hitherto
always found empty, seemed to be inhabited now.

"Since you have come so far," said Eustacia, "will you see me safely
past that hut? I thought I should have met Clym somewhere about here,
but as he doesn't appear I will hasten on and get to Blooms-End before
he leaves."

They advanced to the turf-shed, and when they got near it the firelight
and the lantern inside showed distinctly enough the form of a woman
reclining on a bed of fern, a group of heath men and women standing
around her. Eustacia did not recognize Mrs. Yeobright in the reclining
figure, nor Clym as one of the standers-by till she came close. Then
she quickly pressed her hand up on Wildeve's arm and signified to him to
come back from the open side of the shed into the shadow.

"It is my husband and his mother," she whispered in an agitated voice.
"What can it mean? Will you step forward and tell me?"

Wildeve left her side and went to the back wall of the hut. Presently
Eustacia perceived that he was beckoning to her, and she advanced and
joined him.

"It is a serious case," said Wildeve.

From their position they could hear what was proceeding inside.

"I cannot think where she could have been going," said Clym to someone.
"She had evidently walked a long way, but even when she was able to
speak just now she would not tell me where. What do you really think of
her?"

"There is a great deal to fear," was gravely answered, in a voice which
Eustacia recognized as that of the only surgeon in the district. "She
has suffered somewhat from the bite of the adder; but it is exhaustion
which has overpowered her. My impression is that her walk must have been
exceptionally long."

"I used to tell her not to overwalk herself this weather," said Clym,
with distress. "Do you think we did well in using the adder's fat?"

"Well, it is a very ancient remedy--the old remedy of the
viper-catchers, I believe," replied the doctor. "It is mentioned as
an infallible ointment by Hoffman, Mead, and I think the Abbe Fontana.
Undoubtedly it was as good a thing as you could do; though I question if
some other oils would not have been equally efficacious."

"Come here, come here!" was then rapidly said in anxious female tones,
and Clym and the doctor could be heard rushing forward from the back
part of the shed to where Mrs. Yeobright lay.

"Oh, what is it?" whispered Eustacia.

"'Twas Thomasin who spoke," said Wildeve. "Then they have fetched her. I
wonder if I had better go in--yet it might do harm."

For a long time there was utter silence among the group within; and it
was broken at last by Clym saying, in an agonized voice, "O Doctor, what
does it mean?"

The doctor did not reply at once; ultimately he said, "She is sinking
fast. Her heart was previously affected, and physical exhaustion has
dealt the finishing blow."

Then there was a weeping of women, then waiting, then hushed
exclamations, then a strange gasping sound, then a painful stillness.

"It is all over," said the doctor.

Further back in the hut the cotters whispered, "Mrs. Yeobright is dead."

Almost at the same moment the two watchers observed the form of a
small old-fashioned child entering at the open side of the shed. Susan
Nunsuch, whose boy it was, went forward to the opening and silently
beckoned to him to go back.

"I've got something to tell 'ee, Mother," he cried in a shrill tone.
"That woman asleep there walked along with me today; and she said I was
to say that I had seed her, and she was a broken-hearted woman and cast
off by her son, and then I came on home."

A confused sob as from a man was heard within, upon which Eustacia
gasped faintly, "That's Clym--I must go to him--yet dare I do it?
No--come away!"

When they had withdrawn from the neighbourhood of the shed she said
huskily, "I am to blame for this. There is evil in store for me."

"Was she not admitted to your house after all?" Wildeve inquired.

"No, and that's where it all lies! Oh, what shall I do! I shall not
intrude upon them--I shall go straight home. Damon, good-bye! I cannot
speak to you any more now."

They parted company; and when Eustacia had reached the next hill she
looked back. A melancholy procession was wending its way by the light of
the lantern from the hut towards Blooms-End. Wildeve was nowhere to be
seen.





</CHAPTER>

 Though Eustacia objects, fearful that he will find out what she has done, Clym is determined to waste no more time in going to see his mother. On the way, he discovers her prostrate and carries her to a hut not far from Blooms-End. When he returns with help, they discover she has been bitten by an adder, and they decide that until a doctor can be brought, the only thing to do is to use the old remedy of treating her with the fat of another adder. Meanwhile, Eustacia, waiting impatiently at home, starts out to meet Clym but is halted momentarily by the arrival of Captain Vye, with news that Wildeve has inherited eleven thousand pounds. Thinking of Wildeve in a new light, Eustacia starts for Blooms-End, only to meet the man who occupies her thoughts. After Wildeve describes what he plans to do with the money and they are about to part, they come upon the group at the hut. They conceal themselves behind the hut and learn that Mrs. Yeobright is dying. Both Clym and Thomasin are there, with the heath folk, and after Mrs. Yeobright dies, Johnny Nunsuch repeats the remark about Clym that his mother made earlier in the child's presence.

