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 night-dress
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 shou