“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When they had withdrawn from the neighbourhood of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.
“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.
