VIII. Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers

           WhiletheeffigyofEustaciawasmeltingtonothing,andthefairwomanherselfwasstandingonRainbarrow,hersoulinanabyssofdesolationseldomplumbedbyonesoyoung,YeobrightsatlonelyatBlooms-End.HehadfulfilledhiswordtoThomasinbysendingoffFairwaywiththelettertohiswife,andnowwaitedwithincreasedimpatienceforsomesoundorsignalofherreturn.WereEustaciastillatMistovertheveryleastheexpectedwasthatshewouldsendhimbackareplytonightbythesamehand;though,toleavealltoherinclination,hehadcautionedFairwaynottoaskforananswer.Ifonewerehandedtohimhewastobringitimmediately;ifnot,hewastogostraighthomewithouttroublingtocomeroundtoBlooms-Endagainthatnight.

           ButsecretlyClymhadamorepleasinghope.Eustaciamightpossiblydeclinetouseherpen—itwasratherherwaytoworksilently—andsurprisehimbyappearingathisdoor.Howfullyhermindwasmadeuptodootherwisehedidnotknow.

           ToClym’sregretitbegantorainandblowhardastheeveningadvanced.Thewindraspedandscrapedatthecornersofthehouse,andfillipedtheeavesdroppingslikepeasagainstthepanes.Hewalkedrestlesslyabouttheuntenantedrooms,stoppingstrangenoisesinwindowsanddoorsbyjammingsplintersofwoodintothecasementsandcrevices,andpressingtogethertheleadworkofthequarrieswhereithadbecomeloosenedfromtheglass.