old him his mother's dying words, about her being broken-hearted and
cast off by her son. 'Twas enough to upset any man alive."

Eustacia made no reply beyond that of a slight catch in her breath, as
of one who fain would speak but could not; and Humphrey, declining her
invitation to come in, went away.

Eustacia turned, entered the house, and ascended to the front bedroom,
where a shaded light was burning. In the bed lay Clym, pale, haggard,
wide awake, tossing to one side and to the other, his eyes lit by
a hot light, as if the fire in their pupils were burning up their
substance.

"Is it you, Eustacia?" he said as she sat down.

"Yes, Clym. I have been down to the gate. The moon is shining
beautifully, and there is not a leaf stirring."

"Shining, is it? What's the moon to a man like me? Let it shine--let
anything be, so that I never see another day!... Eustacia, I don't
know where to look: my thoughts go through me like swords. O, if
any man wants to make himself immortal by painting a picture of
wretchedness, let him come here!"

"Why do you say so?"

"I cannot help feeling that I did my best to kill her."

"No, Clym."

"Yes, it was so; it is useless to excuse me! My conduct to her was
too hideous--I made no advances; and she could not bring herself to
forgive me. Now she is dead! If I had only shown myself willing to
make it up with her sooner, and we had been friends, and then she
had died, it wouldn't be so hard to bear. But I never went near her
house, so she never came near mine, and didn't know how welcome she
would have been--that's what troubles me. She did not know I was
going to her house that very night, for she was too insensible to
understand me. If she had only come to see me! I longed that she
would. But it was not to be."

There escaped from Eustacia one of those shivering sighs which used
to shake her like a pestilent blast. She had not yet told.

But Yeobright was too deeply absorbed in the ramblings incidental to
his remorseful state to notice her. During his illness he had been
continually talking thus. Despair had been added to his original
grief by the unfortunate disclosure of the boy who had received the
last words of Mrs. Yeobright--words too bitterly uttered in an hour of
misapprehension. Then his distress had overwhelmed him, and he longed
for death as a field labourer longs for the shade. It was the pitiful
sight of a man standing in the very focus of sorrow. He continually