“It will prove her guilty, by showing that it is her habit to nourish enmity.  But I do not think that for a moment.”

“I will do this.  I will wait for a day or two longer—­not longer than two days certainly; and if she does not send to me in that time I will indeed send to her.  I thought to have seen Wildeve here tonight.  Is he from home?”

Thomasin blushed a little.  “No,” she said.  “He is merely gone out for a walk.”

“Why didn’t he take you with him?  The evening is fine.  You want fresh air as well as he.”

“Oh, I don’t care for going anywhere; besides, there is baby.”

“Yes, yes.  Well, I have been thinking whether I should not consult your husband about this as well as you,” said Clym steadily.

“I fancy I would not,” she quickly answered.  “It can do no good.”

Her cousin looked her in the face.  No doubt Thomasin was ignorant that her husband had any share in the events of that tragic afternoon; but her countenance seemed to signify that she concealed some suspicion or thought of the reputed tender relations between Wildeve and Eustacia in days gone by.

Clym, however, could make nothing of it, and he rose to depart, more in doubt than when he came.

“You will write to her in a day or two?” said the young woman earnestly.  “I do so hope the wretched separation may come to an end.”

“I will,” said Clym; “I don’t rejoice in my present state at all.”

And he left her and climbed over the hill to Blooms-End.  Before going to bed he sat down and wrote the following letter:—­

My dear Eustacia,—­I must obey my heart without consulting my reason too closely.  Will you come back to me?  Do so, and the past shall never be mentioned.  I was too severe; but O, Eustacia, the provocation!  You don’t know, you never will know, what those words of anger cost me which you drew down upon yourself.  All that an honest man can promise you I promise now, which is that from me you shall never suffer anything on this score again.  After all the vows we have made, Eustacia, I think we had better pass the remainder of our lives in trying to keep them.  Come to me, then, even if you reproach me.  I have thought of your sufferings that morning on which I parted from you; I know they were genuine, and they are as much as you ought to bear.  Our love must still continue.  Such hearts as ours would never have been given us but to be concerned with each other.  I could not ask you back at first, Eustacia, for I was unable to persuade myself that he who was with you was not there as a lover.  But if you will come and explain distracting appearances I do not question that you can show your honesty to me.  Why have you not come before?  Do you think I will not listen to you?  Surely not, when you remember the kisses and vows we exchanged under the summer moon.  Return then, and you shall be warmly welcomed.  I can no longer think of you to your prejudice—­I am but too much absorbed in justifying you.—­Your husband as ever,

   Clym.