The heath tonight appeared to be totally deserted:  and Wildeve, after looking over Eustacia’s garden gate for some little time, with a cigar in his mouth, was tempted by the fascination that emotional smuggling had for his nature to advance towards the window, which was not quite closed, the blind being only partly drawn down.  He could see into the room, and Eustacia was sitting there alone.  Wildeve contemplated her for a minute, and then retreating into the heath beat the ferns lightly, whereupon moths flew out alarmed.  Securing one, he returned to the window, and holding the moth to the chink, opened his hand.  The moth made towards the candle upon Eustacia’s table, hovered round it two or three times, and flew into the flame.

Eustacia started up.  This had been a well-known signal in old times when Wildeve had used to come secretly wooing to Mistover.  She at once knew that Wildeve was outside, but before she could consider what to do her husband came in from upstairs.  Eustacia’s face burnt crimson at the unexpected collision of incidents, and filled it with an animation that it too frequently lacked.

“You have a very high colour, dearest,” said Yeobright, when he came close enough to see it.  “Your appearance would be no worse if it were always so.”

“I am warm,” said Eustacia.  “I think I will go into the air for a few minutes.”

“Shall I go with you?”

“O no.  I am only going to the gate.”

She arose, but before she had time to get out of the room a loud rapping began upon the front door.

“I’ll go—­I’ll go,” said Eustacia in an unusually quick tone for her; and she glanced eagerly towards the window whence the moth had flown; but nothing appeared there.

“You had better not at this time of the evening,” he said.  Clym stepped before her into the passage, and Eustacia waited, her somnolent manner covering her inner heat and agitation.

She listened, and Clym opened the door.  No words were uttered outside, and presently he closed it and came back, saying, “Nobody was there.  I wonder what that could have meant?”

He was left to wonder during the rest of the evening, for no explanation offered itself, and Eustacia said nothing, the additional fact that she knew of only adding more mystery to the performance.

Meanwhile a little drama had been acted outside which saved Eustacia from all possibility of compromising herself that evening at least.  While Wildeve had been preparing his moth-signal another person had come behind him up to the gate.  This man, who carried a gun in his hand, looked on for a moment at the other’s operation by the window, walked up to the house, knocked at the door, and then vanished round the corner and over the hedge.

“Damn him!” said Wildeve.  “He has been watching me again.”

As his signal had been rendered futile by this uproarious rapping Wildeve withdrew, passed out at the gate, and walked quickly down the path without thinking of anything except getting away unnoticed.  Half-way down the hill the path ran near a knot of stunted hollies, which in the general darkness of the scene stood as the pupil in a black eye.  When Wildeve reached this point a report startled his ear, and a few spent gunshots fell among the leaves around him.