would have been
reconciled with her."

"But she didn't come to see me, though I asked her, before I married,
if she would come. Had she come, or had I gone there, she would never
have died saying, 'I am a broken-hearted woman, cast off by my son.'
My door has always been open to her--a welcome here has always awaited
her. But that she never came to see."

"You had better not talk any more now, Clym," said Eustacia faintly
from the other part of the room, for the scene was growing intolerable
to her.

"Let me talk to you instead for the little time I shall be here,"
Thomasin said soothingly. "Consider what a one-sided way you have of
looking at the matter, Clym. When she said that to the little boy you
had not found her and taken her into your arms; and it might have been
uttered in a moment of bitterness. It was rather like aunt to say
things in haste. She sometimes used to speak so to me. Though she did
not come I am convinced that she thought of coming to see you. Do
you suppose a man's mother could live two or three months without
one forgiving thought? She forgave me; and why should she not have
forgiven you?"

"You laboured to win her round; I did nothing. I, who was going to
teach people the higher secrets of happiness, did not know how to keep
out of that gross misery which the most untaught are wise enough to
avoid."

"How did you get here tonight, Thomasin?" said Eustacia.

"Damon set me down at the end of the lane. He has driven into East
Egdon on business, and he will come and pick me up by-and-by."

Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had
come, and was waiting outside with his horse and gig.

"Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes," said Thomasin.

"I will run down myself," said Eustacia.

She went down. Wildeve had alighted, and was standing before the
horse's head when Eustacia opened the door. He did not turn for a
moment, thinking the comer Thomasin. Then he looked, started ever
so little, and said one word: "Well?"

"I have not yet told him," she replied in a whisper.

"Then don't do so till he is well--it will be fatal. You are ill
yourself."

"I am wretched... O Damon," she said, bursting into tears, "I--I can't
tell you how unhappy I am! I can hardly bear this. I can tell nobody
of my trouble--nobody knows of it but you."

"Poor girl!" said Wildeve, visibly affected at her distress, and at
last led on so far as to take her hand. "It is hard,