“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!”
The Ministrations of a Half-forgotten One
Eustacia’s journey was at first as vague in
direction as that of thistledown on the wind.
She did not know what to do. She wished it had
been night instead of morning, that she might at least
have borne her misery without the possibility of being
seen. Tracing mile after mile along between the
dying ferns and the wet white spiders’ webs,
she at length turned her steps towards her grandfather’s
house. She found the front door closed and locked.
Mechanically she went round to the end where the stable
was, and on looking in at the stable-door she saw
Charley standing within.
“Captain Vye is not at home?” she said.
“No, ma’am,” said the lad in a flutter
of feeling; “he’s gone to Weatherbury,
and won’t be home till night. And the servant
is gone home for a holiday. So the house is locked
up.”
Eustacia’s face was not visible to Charley as
she stood at the doorway, her back being to the sky,
and the stable but indifferently lighted; but the
wildness of her manner arrested his attention.
She turned and walked away across the enclosure to
the gate, and was hidden by the bank.
