“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.