LITMIR.BIZ

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I, then. My dress is not silk, you see. . . . Are we anywhere in a line between Mistover and the inn?”

      “Well, yes; not far out.”

      “Ah, I wonder if it was she! Diggory, I must go at once!”

      She jumped down from the van before he was aware, when Venn unhooked the lantern and leaped down after her. “I’ll take the baby, ma’am,” he said. “You must be tired out by the weight.”

      Thomasin hesitated a moment, and then delivered the baby into Venn’s hands. “Don’t squeeze her, Diggory,” she said, “or hurt her little arm; and keep the cloak close over her like this, so that the rain may not drop in her face.”

      “I will,” said Venn earnestly. “As if I could hurt anything belonging to you!”

      “I only meant accidentally,” said Thomasin.

      “The baby is dry enough, but you are pretty wet,” said the reddleman when, in closing the door of his cart to padlock it, he noticed on the floor a ring of water drops where her cloak had hung from her.

      Thomasin followed him as he wound right and left to avoid the larger bushes, stopping occasionally and covering the lantern, while he looked over his shoulder to gain some idea of the position of Rainbarrow above them, which it was necessary to keep directly behind their backs to preserve a proper course.

      “You are sure the rain does not fall upon baby?”

      “Quite sure. May I ask how old he is, ma’am?”

      “He!” said Thomasin reproachfully. “Anybody can see better than that in a moment. She is nearly two months old. How far is it now to the inn?”

      “A little over a quarter of a mile.”

      “Will you walk a little faster?”

      “I was afraid you could not keep up.”

      “I am very anxious to get there. Ah, there is a light from the window!”

      “’Tis not from the window. That’s a gig-lamp, to the best of my belief.”

      “O!” said Thomasin in despair. “I wish I had been there sooner — give me the baby, Diggory — you can go back now.”

      “I must go all the way,” said Venn. “There is a quag between us and that light, and you will walk into it up to your neck unless I take you round.”

      “But the light is at the inn, and there is no quag in front of that.”

      “No, the light is below the inn some two or three hundred yards.”

      “Never mind,” said Thomasin hurriedly. “Go towards the light, and not towards the inn.”

      “Yes,” answered Venn, swerving round in obedience; and, after a pause, “I wish you would tell me what this great trouble is. I think you have proved that I can be trusted.”

      “There are some things that cannot be — cannot be told to —” And then her heart rose into her throat, and she could say no more.

      Chapter 9

      Sights and Sounds Draw the Wanderers Together

       Table of Contents

      Having seen Eustacia’s signal from the hill at eight o’clock, Wildeve immediately prepared to assist her in her flight, and, as he hoped, accompany her. He was somewhat perturbed, and his manner of informing Thomasin that he was going on a journey was in itself sufficient to rouse her suspicions. When she had gone to bed he collected the few articles he would require, and went upstairs to the money-chest, whence he took a tolerably bountiful sum in notes, which had been advanced to him on the property he was so soon to have in possession, to defray expenses incidental to the removal.

      He then went to the stable and coach-house to assure himself that the horse, gig, and harness were in a fit condition for a long drive. Nearly half an hour was spent thus, and on returning to the house Wildeve had no thought of Thomasin being anywhere but in bed. He had told the stable lad not to stay up, leading the boy to understand that his departure would be at three or four in the morning; for this, though an exceptional hour, was less strange than midnight, the time actually agreed on, the packet from Budmouth sailing between one and two.

      At last all was quiet, and he had nothing to do but to wait. By no effort could he shake off the oppression of spirits which he had experienced ever since his last meeting with Eustacia, but he hoped there was that in his situation which money could cure. He had persuaded himself that to act not ungenerously towards his gentle wife by settling on her the half of his property, and with chivalrous devotion towards another and greater woman by sharing her fate, was possible. And though he meant to adhere to Eustacia’s instructions to the letter, to deposit her where she wished and to leave her, should that be her will, the spell that she had cast over him intensified, and his heart was beating fast in the anticipated futility of such commands in the face of a mutual wish that they should throw in their lot together.

      He would not allow himself to dwell long upon these conjectures, maxims, and hopes, and at twenty minutes to twelve he again went softly to the stable, harnessed the horse, and lit the lamps; whence, taking the horse by the head, he led him with the covered car out of the yard to a spot by the roadside some quarter of a mile below the inn.

      Here Wildeve waited, slightly sheltered from the driving rain by a high bank that had been cast up at this place. Along the surface of the road where lit by the lamps the loosened gravel and small stones scudded and clicked together before the wind, which, leaving them in heaps, plunged into the heath and boomed across the bushes into darkness. Only one sound rose above this din of weather, and that was the roaring of a ten-hatch weir to the southward, from a river in the meads which formed the boundary of the heath in this direction.

      He lingered on in perfect stillness till he began to fancy that the midnight hour must have struck. A very strong doubt had arisen in his mind if Eustacia would venture down the hill in such weather; yet knowing her nature he felt that she might. “Poor thing! ’tis like her ill-luck,” he murmured.

      At length he turned to the lamp and looked at his watch. To his surprise it was nearly a quarter past midnight. He now wished that he had driven up the circuitous road to Mistover, a plan not adopted because of the enormous length of the route in proportion to that of the pedestrian’s path down the open hillside, and the consequent increase of labour for the horse.

      At this moment a footstep approached; but the light of the lamps being in a different direction the comer was not visible. The step paused, then came on again.

      “Eustacia?” said Wildeve.

      The person came forward, and the light fell upon the form of Clym, glistening with wet, whom Wildeve immediately recognized; but Wildeve, who stood behind the lamp, was not at once recognized by Yeobright.

      He stopped as if in doubt whether this waiting vehicle could have anything to do with the flight of his wife or not. The sight of Yeobright at once banished Wildeve’s sober feelings, who saw him again as the deadly rival from whom Eustacia was to be kept at all hazards. Hence Wildeve did not speak, in the hope that Clym would pass by without particular inquiry.

      While they both hung thus in hesitation a dull sound became audible above the storm and wind. Its origin was unmistakable — it was the fall of a body into the stream in the adjoining mead, apparently at a point near the weir.

      Both started. “Good God! can it be she?” said Clym.

      “Why should it be she?” said Wildeve, in his alarm forgetting that he had hitherto screened himself.

      “Ah! — that’s you, you traitor, is it?” cried Yeobright. “Why should it be she? Because last week she would have put an end to her life if she had been able. She ought to have been watched! Take one of the lamps and come with me.”

      Yeobright seized the

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