“I’ll go；” said Clym。 “O； Eustacia！”
Thomasin carried in her arms a large bundle； and having by this time seated herself she began to unroll it； when a baby appeared as the kernel to the husks—dry； warm； and unconscious of travel or rough weather。 Thomasin briefly kissed the baby； and then found time to begin crying as she said； “I brought baby； for I was afraid what might happen to her。 I suppose it will be her death； but I couldn’t leave her with Rachel！”
Clym hastily put together the logs on the hearth； raked abroad the embers； which were scarcely yet extinct； and blew up a flame with the bellows。
“Dry yourself；” he said。 “I’ll go and get some more wood。”
“No； no—don’t stay for that。 I’ll make up the fire。
Will you go at once—please will you？”
Yeobright ran upstairs to finish dressing himself。
While he was gone another rapping came to the door。 This time there was no delusion that it might be Eustacia’s—the footsteps just preceding it had been heavy and slow。 Yeobright thinking it might possibly be Fairway with a note in answer； descended again and opened the door。
“Captain Vye？” he said to a dripping figure。
“Is my granddaughter here？” said the captain。
“No。”
“Then where is she？”。
“I don’t know。”
“But you ought to know—you are her husband。”
“Only in name apparently；” said Clym with rising excitement。
“I believe she means to elope tonight with Wildeve。
I am just going to look to it。”
“Well； she has left my house； she left about half an hour ago。
Who’s sitting there？”
“My cousin Thomasin。”
The captain bowed in a preoccupied way to her。
“I only hope it is no worse than an elopement；” he said。
“Worse？ What’s worse than the worst a wife can do？”
“Well； I have been told a strange tale。 Before starting in search of her I called up Charley； my stable lad。 I missed my pistols the other day。”
“Pistols？”
“He said at the time that he took them down to clean。 He has now owned that he took them because he saw Eustacia looking curiously at them； and she afterwards owned to him that she was thinking of taking her life； but bound him to secrecy； and promised never to think of such a thing again。 I hardly suppose she will ever have bravado enough to use one of them； but it shows what has been lurking in her mind； and people who think of that sort of thing once think of it again。”
“Where are the pistols？”
“Safely locked up。 O no； she won’t touch them again。 But there are more ways of letting out life than through a bullet…hole。 What did you quarrel about so bitterly with her to drive her to all this？ You must have treated her badly indeed。 Well； I was always against the marriage； and I was right。”
“Are you going with me？” said Yeobright； paying no attention to the captain’s latter remark。 “If so I can tell you what we quarrelled about as we walk along。”
“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 e 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 fortable as you can。”
With this he closed the door upon her； and left the house in pany 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 fort that was doubled by contrast with the drumming of the storm without； which snapped at the windowpanes 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 e here well enough；” she said； “and why shouldn’t I go back again？ It is a mistake for me to be away。”
She hastily fetched the infant； wrapped it up； cloaked herself as before； and shoveling the ashes over the fire； to prevent accidents； went into the open air。 Pausing first to put the door key in its old place behind the shutter； she resolutely turned her face to the confronting pile of firmamental darkness beyond the palings； and stepped into its midst。 But Thomasin’s imagination being so actively engaged elsewhere； the night and the weather had for her no terror beyond that of their actual disfort and difficulty。
She was soon ascending Blooms…End valley and traversing the undulations on the side of the hill。 The noise of the wind over the heath was shrill； and as if it whistled for joy at finding a night so congenial as this。 Sometimes the path led her to hollows between thickets of tall and dripping bracken； dead； though not yet prostrate； which enclosed her like a pool。 When they were more than usually tall she lifted the baby to the top of her head； that it might be out of the reach of their drenching fronds。 On higher ground； where the wind was brisk and sustained； the rain flew in a level flight without sensible descent； so that it was beyond all power to imagine the remoteness of the point at which it left the bosoms of the clouds。 Here self…defence was impossible； and individual drops stuck into her like the arrows into Saint Sebastian。 She was enabled to avoid puddles by the nebulous paleness which signified the