VII. The Tragic Meeting of Two Old Friends

           Heinthemeantimehadarousedhimselffromsleep,satup,andlookedaround.Eustaciawassittinginachairhardbyhim,andthoughsheheldabookinherhandshehadnotlookedintoitforsometime.

           “Well,indeed!”saidClym,brushinghiseyeswithhishands.“HowsoundlyIhaveslept!Ihavehadsuchatremendousdream,too—oneIshallneverforget.”

           “Ithoughtyouhadbeendreaming,”saidshe.

           “Yes.Itwasaboutmymother.IdreamtthatItookyoutoherhousetomakeupdifferences,andwhenwegottherewecouldn’tgetin,thoughshekeptoncryingtousforhelp.However,dreamsaredreams.Whato’clockisit,Eustacia?”

           “Half-pasttwo.”

           “Solate,isit?Ididn’tmeantostaysolong.BythetimeIhavehadsomethingtoeatitwillbeafterthree.”

           “Annisnotcomebackfromthevillage,andIthoughtIwouldletyousleepontillshereturned.”

           Clymwenttothewindowandlookedout.Presentlyhesaid,musingly,“Weekafterweekpasses,andyetMotherdoesnotcome.IthoughtIshouldhaveheardsomethingfromherlongbeforethis.”

           Misgiving,regret,fear,resolution,rantheirswiftcourseofexpressioninEustacia’sdarkeyes.Shewasfacetofacewithamonstrousdifficulty,andsheresolvedtogetfreeofitbypostponement.

           “ImustcertainlygotoBlooms-Endsoon,”hecontinued,“andIthinkIhadbettergoalone.”Hepickeduphisleggingsandgloves,threwthemdownagain,andadded,“AsdinnerwillbesolatetodayIwillnotgobacktotheheath,butworkinthegardentilltheevening,andthen,whenitwillbecooler,IwillwalktoBlooms-End.