“Where to?”

“To Wildeve’s—­that was her destination, depend upon it.”

Thomasin here broke in, still weeping:  “He said he was only going on a sudden short journey; but if so why did he want so much money?  O, Clym, what do you think will happen?  I am afraid that you, my poor baby, will soon have no father left to you!”

“I am off now,” said Yeobright, stepping into the porch.

“I would fain go with ’ee,” said the old man doubtfully.  “But I begin to be afraid that my legs will hardly carry me there such a night as this.  I am not so young as I was.  If they are interrupted in their flight she will be sure to come back to me, and I ought to be at the house to receive her.  But be it as ’twill I can’t walk to the Quiet Woman, and that’s an end on’t.  I’ll go straight home.”

“It will perhaps be best,” said Clym.  “Thomasin, dry yourself, and be as comfortable as you can.”

With this he closed the door upon her, and left the house in company with Captain Vye, who parted from him outside the gate, taking the middle path, which led to Mistover.  Clym crossed by the right-hand track towards the inn.

Thomasin, being left alone, took off some of her wet garments, carried the baby upstairs to Clym’s bed, and then came down to the sitting-room again, where she made a larger fire, and began drying herself.  The fire soon flared up the chimney, giving the room an appearance of comfort that was doubled by contrast with the drumming of the storm without, which snapped at the window-panes and breathed into the chimney strange low utterances that seemed to be the prologue to some tragedy.

But the least part of Thomasin was in the house, for her heart being at ease about the little girl upstairs she was mentally following Clym on his journey.  Having indulged in this imaginary peregrination for some considerable interval, she became impressed with a sense of the intolerable slowness of time.  But she sat on.  The moment then came when she could scarcely sit longer; and it was like a satire on her patience to remember that Clym could hardly have reached the inn as yet.  At last she went to the baby’s bedside.  The child was sleeping soundly; but her imagination of possibly disastrous events at her home, the predominance within her of the unseen over the seen, agitated her beyond endurance.  She could not refrain from going down and opening the door.  The rain still continued, the candlelight falling upon the nearest drops and making glistening darts of them as they descended across the throng of invisible ones behind.  To plunge into that medium was to plunge into water slightly diluted with air.  But the difficulty of returning to her house at this moment made her all the more desirous of doing so:  anything was better than suspense.  “I have come here well enough,” she said, “and why shouldn’t I go back again?  It is a mistake for me to be away.”