The person was Thomasin, with a candle, looking anxious, pale, and interesting.  Yeobright appeared glad to see her, and pressed her hand.  “That’s right, Tamsie,” he said heartily, as though recalled to himself by the sight of her, “you have decided to come down.  I am glad of it.”

“Hush—­no, no,” she said quickly.  “I only came to speak to you.”

“But why not join us?”

“I cannot.  At least I would rather not.  I am not well enough, and we shall have plenty of time together now you are going to be home a good long holiday.”

“It isn’t nearly so pleasant without you.  Are you really ill?”

“Just a little, my old cousin—­here,” she said, playfully sweeping her hand across her heart.

“Ah, mother should have asked somebody else to be present tonight, perhaps?”

“O no, indeed.  I merely stepped down, Clym, to ask you—­” Here he followed her through the doorway into the private room beyond, and, the door closing, Eustacia and the mummer who sat next to her, the only other witness of the performance, saw and heard no more.

The heat flew to Eustacia’s head and cheeks.  She instantly guessed that Clym, having been home only these two or three days, had not as yet been made acquainted with Thomasin’s painful situation with regard to Wildeve; and seeing her living there just as she had been living before he left home, he naturally suspected nothing.  Eustacia felt a wild jealousy of Thomasin on the instant.  Though Thomasin might possibly have tender sentiments towards another man as yet, how long could they be expected to last when she was shut up here with this interesting and travelled cousin of hers?  There was no knowing what affection might not soon break out between the two, so constantly in each other’s society, and not a distracting object near.  Clym’s boyish love for her might have languished, but it might easily be revived again.

Eustacia was nettled by her own contrivances.  What a sheer waste of herself to be dressed thus while another was shining to advantage!  Had she known the full effect of the encounter she would have moved heaven and earth to get here in a natural manner.  The power of her face all lost, the charm of her emotions all disguised, the fascinations of her coquetry denied existence, nothing but a voice left to her; she had a sense of the doom of Echo.  “Nobody here respects me,” she said.  She had overlooked the fact that, in coming as a boy among other boys, she would be treated as a boy.  The slight, though of her own causing, and self-explanatory, she was unable to dismiss as unwittingly shown, so sensitive had the situation made her.

Women have done much for themselves in histrionic dress.  To look far below those who, like a certain fair personator of Polly Peachum early in the last century, and another of Lydia Languish early in this, have won not only love but ducal coronets into the bargain, whole shoals of them have reached to the initial satisfaction of getting love almost whence they would.  But the Turkish Knight was denied even the chance of achieving this by the fluttering ribbons which she dared not brush aside.