faces from the bank
stretching breast-high between them.

"I did not light it!" cried Eustacia quickly. "It was lit without my
knowledge. Don't, don't come over to me!"

"Why have you been living here all these days without telling me? You
have left your home. I fear I am something to blame for this?"

"I did not let in his mother; that's how it is!"

"You do not deserve what you have got, Eustacia; you are in great
misery; I see it in your eyes, your mouth, and all over you. My poor,
poor girl!" He stepped over the bank. "You are beyond everything
unhappy!"

"No, no; not exactly--"

"It has been pushed too far--it is killing you: I do think it!"

Her usually quiet breathing had grown quicker with his words.
"I--I--" she began, and then burst into quivering sobs, shaken to
the very heart by the unexpected voice of pity--a sentiment whose
existence in relation to herself she had almost forgotten.

This outbreak of weeping took Eustacia herself so much by surprise
that she could not leave off, and she turned aside from him in some
shame, though turning hid nothing from him. She sobbed on desperately;
then the outpour lessened, and she became quieter. Wildeve had
resisted the impulse to clasp her, and stood without speaking.

"Are you not ashamed of me, who used never to be a crying animal?"
she asked in a weak whisper as she wiped her eyes. "Why didn't you go
away? I wish you had not seen quite all that; it reveals too much by
half."

"You might have wished it, because it makes me as sad as you," he said
with emotion and deference. "As for revealing--the word is impossible
between us two."

"I did not send for you--don't forget it, Damon; I am in pain, but I
did not send for you! As a wife, at least, I've been straight."

"Never mind--I came. O, Eustacia, forgive me for the harm I have done
you in these two past years! I see more and more that I have been your
ruin."

"Not you. This place I live in."

"Ah, your generosity may naturally make you say that. But I am the
culprit. I should either have done more or nothing at all."

"In what way?"

"I ought never to have hunted you out, or, having done it, I ought
to have persisted in retaining you. But of course I have no right to
talk of that now. I will only ask this: can I do anything for you?
Is there anything on the face of the earth that a man can do to make
you happier than you are at present? If there is, I will do it. You
may command me, Eustacia