While she stood she heard a sound.  It was the splash of a stone in the pond.

Had Eustacia received the stone full in the bosom her heart could not have given a more decided thump.  She had thought of the possibility of such a signal in answer to that which had been unwittingly given by Charley; but she had not expected it yet.  How prompt Wildeve was!  Yet how could he think her capable of deliberately wishing to renew their assignations now?  An impulse to leave the spot, a desire to stay, struggled within her; and the desire held its own.  More than that it did not do, for she refrained even from ascending the bank and looking over.  She remained motionless, not disturbing a muscle of her face or raising her eyes; for were she to turn up her face the fire on the bank would shine upon it, and Wildeve might be looking down.

There was a second splash into the pond.

Why did he stay so long without advancing and looking over?  Curiosity had its way:  she ascended one or two of the earth-steps in the bank and glanced out.

Wildeve was before her.  He had come forward after throwing the last pebble, and the fire now shone into each of their 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.”