s not
inconvenienced by excessive inspection, for all were wrought to their
brightest grace by the occasion. Like the planet Mercury surrounded
by the lustre of sunset, her permanent brilliancy passed without much
notice in the temporary glory of the situation.

As for Wildeve, his feelings are easy to guess. Obstacles were a
ripening sun to his love, and he was at this moment in a delirium of
exquisite misery. To clasp as his for five minutes what was another
man's through all the rest of the year was a kind of thing he of all men
could appreciate. He had long since begun to sigh again for Eustacia;
indeed, it may be asserted that signing the marriage register with
Thomasin was the natural signal to his heart to return to its first
quarters, and that the extra complication of Eustacia's marriage was the
one addition required to make that return compulsory.

Thus, for different reasons, what was to the rest an exhilarating
movement was to these two a riding upon the whirlwind. The dance had
come like an irresistible attack upon whatever sense of social order
there was in their minds, to drive them back into old paths which were
now doubly irregular. Through three dances in succession they spun their
way; and then, fatigued with the incessant motion, Eustacia turned to
quit the circle in which she had already remained too long. Wildeve
led her to a grassy mound a few yards distant, where she sat down, her
partner standing beside her. From the time that he addressed her at the
beginning of the dance till now they had not exchanged a word.

"The dance and the walking have tired you?" he said tenderly.

"No; not greatly."

"It is strange that we should have met here of all places, after missing
each other so long."

"We have missed because we tried to miss, I suppose."

"Yes. But you began that proceeding--by breaking a promise."

"It is scarcely worth while to talk of that now. We have formed other
ties since then--you no less than I."

"I am sorry to hear that your husband is ill."

"He is not ill--only incapacitated."

"Yes--that is what I mean. I sincerely sympathize with you in your
trouble. Fate has treated you cruelly."

She was silent awhile. "Have you heard that he has chosen to work as a
furze-cutter?" she said in a low, mournful voice.

"It has been mentioned to me," answered Wildeve hesitatingly. "But I
hardly believed it."

"It is true. What do you think of me as a furze-cutter's wife?"

"I t