know what is the matter,” he said huskily. “I see it in your face.”
Her hand relinquished the rope of hair and dropped to her side, and the pile of tresses, no longer supported, fell from the crown of her head about her shoulders and over the white nightgown. She made no reply.
“Speak to me,” said Yeobright peremptorily.
The blanching process did not cease in her, and her lips now became as white as her face. She turned to him and said, “Yes, Clym, I’ll speak to you. Why do you return so early? Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes, you can listen to me. It seems that my wife is not very well?”
“Why?”
“Your face, my dear; your face. Or perhaps it is the pale morning light which takes your colour away? Now I am going to reveal a secret to you. Ha-ha!”
“O, that is ghastly!”
“What?”
“Your laugh.”
“There’s reason for ghastliness. Eustacia, you have held my happiness in the hollow of your hand, and like a devil you have dashed it down!”
She started back from the dressing-table, retreated a few steps from him, and looked him in the face. “Ah! you think to frighten me,” she said, with a slight laugh. “Is it worth while? I am undefended, and alone.”
“How extraordinary!”
“What do you mean?”
“As there is ample time I will tell you, though you know well enough. I mean that it is extraordinary that you should be alone in my absence. Tell me, now, where is he who was with you on the afternoon of the thirty-first of August? Under the bed? Up the chimney?”
A shudder overcame her and shook the light fabric of her nightdress throughout. “I do not remember dates so exactly,” she said. “I cannot recollect that anybody was with me besides yourself.”
“The day I mean,” said Yeobright, his voice growing louder and harsher, “was the day you shut the door against my mother and killed her. O, it is too much — too bad!” He leant over the footpiece of the bedstead for a few moments, with his back towards her; then rising again —“Tell me, tell me! tell me — do you hear?” he cried, rushing up to her and seizing her by the loose folds of her sleeve.
The superstratum of timidity which often overlies those who are daring and defiant at heart had been passed through, and the mettlesome substance of the woman was reached. The red blood inundated her face, previously so pale.
“What are you going to do?” she said in a low voice, regarding him with a proud smile. “You will not alarm me by holding on so; but it would be a pity to tear my sleeve.”
Instead of letting go he drew her closer to him. “Tell me the particulars of — my mother’s death,” he said in a hard, panting whisper; “or — I’ll — I’ll —”
“Clym,” she answered slowly, “do you think you dare do anything to me that I dare not bear? But before you strike me listen. You will get nothing from me by a blow, even though it should kill me, as it probably will. But perhaps you do not wish me to speak — killing may be all you mean?”
“Kill you! Do you expect it?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“No less degree of rage against me will match your previous grief for her.”
“Phew — I shall not kill you,” he said contemptuously, as if under a sudden change of purpose. “I did think of it; but — I shall not. That would be making a martyr of you, and sending you to where she is; and I would keep you away from her till the universe come to an end, if I could.”
“I almost wish you would kill me,” said she with gloomy bitterness. “It is with no strong desire, I assure you, that I play the part I have lately played on earth. You are no blessing, my husband.”
“You shut the door — you looked out of the window upon her — you had a man in the house with you — you sent her away to die. The inhumanity — the treachery — I will not touch you — stand away from me — and confess every word!”
“Never! I’ll hold my tongue like the very death that I don’t mind meeting, even though I can clear myself of half you believe by speaking. Yes. I will! Who of any dignity would take the trouble to clear cobwebs from a wild man’s mind after such language as this? No; let him go on, and think his narrow thoughts, and run his head into the mire. I have other cares.”
“’Tis too much — but I must spare you.”
“Poor charity.”
“By my wretched soul you sting me, Eustacia! I can keep it up, and hotly too. Now, then, madam, tell me his name!”
“Never, I am resolved.”
“How often does he write to you? Where does he put his letters — when does he meet you? Ah, his letters! Do you tell me his name?”
“I do not.”
“Then I’ll find it myself.” His eyes had fallen upon a small desk that stood near, on which she was accustomed to write her letters. He went to it. It was locked.
“Unlock this!”
“You have no right to say it. That’s mine.”
Without another word he seized the desk and dashed it to the floor. The hinge burst open, and a number of letters tumbled out.
“Stay!” said Eustacia, stepping before him with more excitement than she had hitherto shown.
“Come, come! stand away! I must see them.”
She looked at the letters as they lay, checked her feeling and moved indifferently aside; when he gathered them up, and examined them.
By no stretch of meaning could any but a harmless construction be placed upon a single one of the letters themselves. The solitary exception was an empty envelope directed to her, and the handwriting was Wildeve’s. Yeobright held it up. Eustacia was doggedly silent.
“Can you read, madam? Look at this envelope. Doubtless we shall find more soon, and what was inside them. I shall no doubt be gratified by learning in good time what a well-finished and full-blown adept in a certain trade my lady is.”
“Do you say it to me — do you?” she gasped.
He searched further, but found nothing more. “What was in this letter?” he said.
“Ask the writer. Am I your hound that you should talk to me in this way?”
“Do you brave me? do you stand me out, mistress? Answer. Don’t look at me with those eyes if you would bewitch me again! Sooner than that I die. You refuse to answer?”
“I wouldn’t tell you after this, if I were as innocent
