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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 3

      Eustacia Dresses Herself on a Black Morning

       Table of Contents

      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?”

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