“Never mind—­I came.  O, Eustacia, forgive me for the harm I have done you in these two past years!  I see more and more that I have been your ruin.”

“Not you.  This place I live in.”

“Ah, your generosity may naturally make you say that.  But I am the culprit.  I should either have done more or nothing at all.”

“In what way?”

“I ought never to have hunted you out, or, having done it, I ought to have persisted in retaining you.  But of course I have no right to talk of that now.  I will only ask this:  can I do anything for you?  Is there anything on the face of the earth that a man can do to make you happier than you are at present?  If there is, I will do it.  You may command me, Eustacia, to the limit of my influence; and don’t forget that I am richer now.  Surely something can be done to save you from this!  Such a rare plant in such a wild place it grieves me to see.  Do you want anything bought?  Do you want to go anywhere?  Do you want to escape the place altogether?  Only say it, and I’ll do anything to put an end to those tears, which but for me would never have been at all.”

“We are each married to another person,” she said faintly; “and assistance from you would have an evil sound—­after—­after—­”

“Well, there’s no preventing slanderers from having their fill at any time; but you need not be afraid.  Whatever I may feel I promise you on my word of honour never to speak to you about—­or act upon—­until you say I may.  I know my duty to Thomasin quite as well as I know my duty to you as a woman unfairly treated.  What shall I assist you in?”

“In getting away from here.”

“Where do you wish to go to?”

“I have a place in my mind.  If you could help me as far as Budmouth I can do all the rest.  Steamers sail from there across the Channel, and so I can get to Paris, where I want to be.  Yes,” she pleaded earnestly, “help me to get to Budmouth harbour without my grandfather’s or my husband’s knowledge, and I can do all the rest.”

“Will it be safe to leave you there alone?”

“Yes, yes.  I know Budmouth well.”

“Shall I go with you?  I am rich now.”

She was silent.

“Say yes, sweet!”

She was silent still.

“Well, let me know when you wish to go.  We shall be at our present house till December; after that we remove to Casterbridge.  Command me in anything till that time.”

“I will think of this,” she said hurriedly.  “Whether I can honestly make use of you as a friend, or must close with you as a lover—­that is what I must ask myself.  If I wish to go and decide to accept your company I will signal to you some evening at eight o’clock punctually, and this will mean that you are to be ready with a horse and trap at twelve o’clock the same night to drive me to Budmouth harbour in time for the morning boat.”

“I will look out every night at eight, and no signal shall escape me.”