["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> <CHAPTER>\n7--The Night of the Sixth of November\n\n\nHaving resolved on flight Eustacia at times seemed anxious that\nsomething should happen to thwart her own intention. The only event that\ncould really change her position was the appearance of Clym. The glory\nwhich had encircled him as her lover was departed now; yet some good\nsimple quality of his would occasionally return to her memory and stir a\nmomentary throb of hope that he would again present himself before her. But calmly considered it was not likely that such a severance as now\nexisted would ever close up--she would have to live on as a painful\nobject, isolated, and out of place. She had used to think of the heath\nalone as an uncongenial spot to be in; she felt it now of the whole\nworld. Towards evening on the sixth her determination to go away again revived. About four o'clock she packed up anew the few small articles she had\nbrought in her flight from Alderworth, and also some belonging to her\nwhich had been left here; the whole formed a bundle not too large to be\ncarried in her hand for a distance of a mile or two. The scene without\ngrew darker; mud-coloured clouds bellied downwards from the sky like\nvast hammocks slung across it, and with the increase of night a stormy\nwind arose; but as yet there was no rain. Eustacia could not rest indoors, having nothing more to do, and she\nwandered to and fro on the hill, not far from the house she was soon\nto leave. In these desultory ramblings she passed the cottage of Susan\nNunsuch, a little lower down than her grandfather's. The door was\najar, and a riband of bright firelight fell over the ground without. As\nEustacia crossed the firebeams she appeared for an instant as distinct\nas a figure in a phantasmagoria--a creature of light surrounded by\nan area of darkness; the moment passed, and she was absorbed in night\nagain. A woman who was sitting inside the cottage had seen and recognized\nher in that momentary irradiation. This was Susan herself, occupied\nin preparing a posset for her little boy, who, often ailing, was\nnow seriously unwell. Susan dropped the spoon, shook her fist at the\nvanished figure, and then proceeded with her work in a musing, absent\nway. At eight o'clock, the hour at which Eustacia had promised to signal\nWildeve if ever she signalled at all, she looked around the premises to\nlearn if the coast was clear, went to the furze-rick, and pulled thence\na long-stemmed bough of that fuel. This she carried to the corner of the\nbank, and, glancing behind to see if the shutters were all closed, she\nstruck a light, and kindled the furze. When it was thoroughly ablaze\nEustacia took it by the stem and waved it in the air above her head till\nit had burned itself out. She was gratified, if gratification were possible to such a mood, by\nseeing a similar light in the vicinity of Wildeve's residence a minute\nor two later. Having agreed to keep watch at this hour every night, in\ncase she should require assistance, this promptness proved how strictly\nhe had held to his word. Four hours after the present time, that is, at\nmidnight, he was to be ready to drive her to Budmouth, as prearranged. Eustacia returned to the house. Supper having been got over she retired\nearly, and sat in her bedroom waiting for the time to go by. The night\nbeing dark and threatening, Captain Vye had not strolled out to gossip\nin any cottage or to call at the inn, as was sometimes his custom on\nthese long autumn nights; and he sat sipping grog alone downstairs. About ten o'clock there was a knock at the door. When the servant opened\nit the rays of the candle fell upon the form of Fairway. \"I was a-forced to go to Lower Mistover tonight,\" he said, \"and Mr.\nYeobright asked me to leave this here on my way; but, faith, I put it in\nthe lining of my hat, and thought no more about it till I got back and\nwas hasping my gate before going to bed. So I have run back with it at\nonce.\" He handed in a letter and went his way. The girl brought it to the\ncaptain, who found that it was directed to Eustacia. He turned it over\nand over, and fancied that the writing was her husband's, though he\ncould not be sure. However, he decided to let her have it at once if\npossible, and took it upstairs for that purpose; but on reaching the\ndoor of her room and looking in at the keyhole he found there was no\nlight within, the fact being that Eustacia, without undressing, had\nflung herself upon the bed, to rest and gather a little strength for her\ncoming journey. Her grandfather concluded from what he saw that he ought\nnot to disturb her; and descending again to the parlour he placed the\nletter on the mantelpiece to give it to her in the morning. At eleven o'clock he went to bed himself, smoked for some time in his\nbedroom, put out his light at half-past eleven, and then, as was his\ninvariable custom, pulled up the blind before getting into bed, that he\nmight see which way the wind blew on opening his eyes in the morning,\nhis bedroom window commanding a view of the flagstaff and vane. Just as\nhe had lain down he was surprised to observe the white pole of the staff\nflash into existence like a streak of phosphorus drawn downwards across\nthe shade of night without. Only one explanation met this--a light had\nbeen suddenly thrown upon the pole from the direction of the house. As\neverybody had retired to rest the old man felt it necessary to get\nout of bed, open the window softly, and look to the right and left. Eustacia's bedroom was lighted up, and it was the shine from her window\nwhich had lighted the pole. Wondering what had aroused her, he remained\nundecided at the window, and was thinking of fetching the letter to slip\nit under her door, when he heard a slight brushing of garments on the\npartition dividing his room from the passage. The captain concluded that Eustacia, feeling wakeful, had gone for a\nbook, and would have dismissed the matter as unimportant if he had not\nalso heard her distinctly weeping as she passed. \"She is thinking of that husband of hers,\" he said to himself. \"Ah, the\nsilly goose! she had no business to marry him. I wonder if that letter\nis really his?\" He arose, threw his boat-cloak round him, opened the door, and said,\n\"Eustacia!\" There was no answer. \"Eustacia!\" he repeated louder, \"there\nis a letter on the mantelpiece for you.\" But no response was made to this statement save an imaginary one from\nthe wind, which seemed to gnaw at the corners of the house, and the\nstroke of a few drops of rain upon the windows. He went on to the landing, and stood waiting nearly five minutes. Still\nshe did not return. He went back for a light, and prepared to follow\nher; but first he looked into her bedroom. There, on the outside of the\nquilt, was the impression of her form, showing that the bed had not\nbeen opened; and, what was more significant, she had not taken her\ncandlestick downstairs. He was now thoroughly alarmed; and hastily\nputting on his clothes he descended to the front door, which he himself\nhad bolted and locked. It was now unfastened. There was no longer\nany doubt that Eustacia had left the house at this midnight hour; and\nwhither could she have gone? To follow her was almost impossible. Had\nthe dwelling stood in an ordinary road, two persons setting out, one\nin each direction, might have made sure of overtaking her; but it was\na hopeless task to seek for anybody on a heath in the dark, the\npracticable directions for flight across it from any point being as\nnumerous as the meridians radiating from the pole. Perplexed what to do,\nhe looked into the parlour, and was vexed to find that the letter still\nlay there untouched. At half-past eleven, finding that the house was silent, Eustacia had\nlighted her candle, put on some warm outer wrappings, taken her bag in\nher hand, and, extinguishing the light again, descended the staircase. When she got into the outer air she found that it had begun to rain, and\nas she stood pausing at the door it increased, threatening to come on\nheavily. But having committed herself to this line of action there was\nno retreating for bad weather. Even the receipt of Clym's letter would\nnot have stopped her now. The gloom of the night was funereal; all\nnature seemed clothed in crape.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The spiky points of the fir trees behind\nthe house rose into the sky like the turrets and pinnacles of an abbey. Nothing below the horizon was visible save a light which was still\nburning in the cottage of Susan Nunsuch. Eustacia opened her umbrella and went out from the enclosure by the\nsteps over the bank, after which she was beyond all danger of being\nperceived. Skirting the pool, she followed the path towards Rainbarrow,\noccasionally stumbling over twisted furze roots, tufts of rushes, or\noozing lumps of fleshy fungi, which at this season lay scattered about\nthe heath like the rotten liver and lungs of some colossal animal. The moon and stars were closed up by cloud and rain to the degree\nof extinction. It was a night which led the traveller's thoughts\ninstinctively to dwell on nocturnal scenes of disaster in the\nchronicles of the world, on all that is terrible and dark in history and\nlegend--the last plague of Egypt, the destruction of Sennacherib's host,\nthe agony in Gethsemane. Eustacia at length reached Rainbarrow, and stood still there to think. Never was harmony more perfect than that between the chaos of her mind\nand the chaos of the world without. A sudden recollection had flashed\non her this moment--she had not money enough for undertaking a long\njourney. Amid the fluctuating sentiments of the day her unpractical mind\nhad not dwelt on the necessity of being well-provided, and now that she\nthoroughly realized the conditions she sighed bitterly and ceased to\nstand erect, gradually crouching down under the umbrella as if she were\ndrawn into the Barrow by a hand from beneath. Could it be that she was\nto remain a captive still? Money--she had never felt its value before. Even to efface herself from the country means were required. To ask\nWildeve for pecuniary aid without allowing him to accompany her was\nimpossible to a woman with a shadow of pride left in her; to fly as\nhis mistress--and she knew that he loved her--was of the nature of\nhumiliation. Anyone who had stood by now would have pitied her, not so much on\naccount of her exposure to weather, and isolation from all of humanity\nexcept the mouldered remains inside the tumulus; but for that other form\nof misery which was denoted by the slightly rocking movement that her\nfeelings imparted to her person. Extreme unhappiness weighed visibly\nupon her. Between the drippings of the rain from her umbrella to her\nmantle, from her mantle to the heather, from the heather to the earth,\nvery similar sounds could be heard coming from her lips; and the\ntearfulness of the outer scene was repeated upon her face. The wings of\nher soul were broken by the cruel obstructiveness of all about her; and\neven had she seen herself in a promising way of getting to Budmouth,\nentering a steamer, and sailing to some opposite port, she would have\nbeen but little more buoyant, so fearfully malignant were other things. She uttered words aloud. When a woman in such a situation, neither old,\ndeaf, crazed, nor whimsical, takes upon herself to sob and soliloquize\naloud there is something grievous the matter. \"Can I go, can I go?\" she moaned. \"He's not GREAT enough for me to give\nmyself to--he does not suffice for my desire!... If he had been a Saul or\na Bonaparte--ah! But to break my marriage vow for him--it is too poor a\nluxury!... And I have no money to go alone! And if I could, what comfort\nto me? I must drag on next year, as I have dragged on this year, and the\nyear after that as before. How I have tried and tried to be a splendid\nwoman, and how destiny has been against me!... I do not deserve my lot!\" she cried in a frenzy of bitter revolt. \"O, the cruelty of putting me\ninto this ill-conceived world! I was capable of much; but I have been\ninjured and blighted and crushed by things beyond my control! O, how\nhard it is of Heaven to devise such tortures for me, who have done no\nharm to Heaven at all!\" The distant light which Eustacia had cursorily observed in leaving\nthe house came, as she had divined, from the cottage window of Susan\nNunsuch. What Eustacia did not divine was the occupation of the woman\nwithin at that moment. Susan's sight of her passing figure earlier in\nthe evening, not five minutes after the sick boy's exclamation, \"Mother,\nI do feel so bad!\" persuaded the matron that an evil influence was\ncertainly exercised by Eustacia's propinquity. On this account Susan did not go to bed as soon as the evening's work\nwas over, as she would have done at ordinary times. To counteract the\nmalign spell which she imagined poor Eustacia to be working, the\nboy's mother busied herself with a ghastly invention of superstition,\ncalculated to bring powerlessness, atrophy, and annihilation on any\nhuman being against whom it was directed. It was a practice well known\non Egdon at that date, and one that is not quite extinct at the present\nday. She passed with her candle into an inner room, where, among other\nutensils, were two large brown pans, containing together perhaps a\nhundredweight of liquid honey, the produce of the bees during the\nforegoing summer. On a shelf over the pans was a smooth and solid yellow\nmass of a hemispherical form, consisting of beeswax from the same take\nof honey. Susan took down the lump, and cutting off several thin\nslices, heaped them in an iron ladle, with which she returned to the\nliving-room, and placed the vessel in the hot ashes of the fireplace. As\nsoon as the wax had softened to the plasticity of dough she kneaded the\npieces together. And now her face became more intent. She began moulding\nthe wax; and it was evident from her manner of manipulation that she was\nendeavouring to give it some preconceived form. The form was human. By warming and kneading, cutting and twisting, dismembering and\nre-joining the incipient image she had in about a quarter of an hour\nproduced a shape which tolerably well resembled a woman, and was\nabout six inches high. She laid it on the table to get cold and hard. Meanwhile she took the candle and went upstairs to where the little boy\nwas lying. \"Did you notice, my dear, what Mrs. Eustacia wore this afternoon besides\nthe dark dress?\" \"A red ribbon round her neck.\" \"Anything else?\" \"No--except sandal-shoes.\" \"A red ribbon and sandal-shoes,\" she said to herself. Mrs. Nunsuch went and searched till she found a fragment of the\nnarrowest red ribbon, which she took downstairs and tied round the neck\nof the image. Then fetching ink and a quilt from the rickety bureau by\nthe window, she blackened the feet of the image to the extent presumably\ncovered by shoes; and on the instep of each foot marked cross-lines in\nthe shape taken by the sandalstrings of those days. Finally she tied\na bit of black thread round the upper part of the head, in faint\nresemblance to a snood worn for confining the hair. Susan held the object at arm's length and contemplated it with a\nsatisfaction in which there was no smile. To anybody acquainted with\nthe inhabitants of Egdon Heath the image would have suggested Eustacia\nYeobright. From her workbasket in the window-seat the woman took a paper of pins,\nof the old long and yellow sort, whose heads were disposed to come off\nat their first usage. These she began to thrust into the image in all\ndirections, with apparently excruciating energy. Probably as many as\nfifty were thus inserted, some into the head of the wax model, some into\nthe shoulders, some into the trunk, some upwards through the soles of\nthe feet, till the figure was completely permeated with pins. She turned to the fire. It had been of turf; and though the high heap\nof ashes which turf fires produce was somewhat dark and dead on the\noutside, upon raking it abroad with the shovel the inside of the mass\nshowed a glow of red heat. She took a few pieces of fresh turf from the\nchimney-corner and built them together over the glow, upon which the\nfire brightened. Seizing with the tongs the image that she had made of\nEustacia, she held it in the heat, and watched it as it began to waste\nslowly away. And while she stood thus engaged there came from between\nher lips a murmur of words. It was a strange jargon--the Lord's Prayer repeated backwards--the\nincantation usual in proceedings for obtaining unhallowed assistance\nagainst an enemy. Susan uttered the lugubrious discourse three times\nslowly, and when it was completed the image had considerably diminished.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-03 The user is reading a book]\n<User> As the wax dropped into the fire a long flame arose from the spot,\nand curling its tongue round the figure ate still further into its\nsubstance. A pin occasionally dropped with the wax, and the embers\nheated it red as it lay. </CHAPTER>\n<CHAPTER>\n8--Rain, Darkness, and Anxious Wanderers\n\n\nWhile the effigy of Eustacia was melting to nothing, and the fair woman\nherself was standing on Rainbarrow, her soul in an abyss of desolation\nseldom plumbed by one so young, Yeobright sat lonely at Blooms-End. He had fulfilled his word to Thomasin by sending off Fairway with the\nletter to his wife, and now waited with increased impatience for some\nsound or signal of her return. Were Eustacia still at Mistover the very\nleast he expected was that she would send him back a reply tonight by\nthe same hand; though, to leave all to her inclination, he had cautioned\nFairway not to ask for an answer. If one were handed to him he was\nto bring it immediately; if not, he was to go straight home without\ntroubling to come round to Blooms-End again that night. But secretly Clym had a more pleasing hope. Eustacia might possibly\ndecline to use her pen--it was rather her way to work silently--and\nsurprise him by appearing at his door. How fully her mind was made up to\ndo otherwise he did not know. To Clym's regret it began to rain and blow hard as the evening advanced. The wind rasped and scraped at the corners of the house, and filliped\nthe eavesdroppings like peas against the panes. He walked restlessly\nabout the untenanted rooms, stopping strange noises in windows and\ndoors by jamming splinters of wood into the casements and crevices,\nand pressing together the leadwork of the quarries where it had become\nloosened from the glass. It was one of those nights when cracks in the\nwalls of old churches widen, when ancient stains on the ceilings of\ndecayed manor houses are renewed and enlarged from the size of a man's\nhand to an area of many feet. The little gate in the palings before\nhis dwelling continually opened and clicked together again, but when he\nlooked out eagerly nobody was there; it was as if invisible shapes of\nthe dead were passing in on their way to visit him. Between ten and eleven o'clock, finding that neither Fairway nor anybody\nelse came to him, he retired to rest, and despite his anxieties soon\nfell asleep. His sleep, however, was not very sound, by reason of the\nexpectancy he had given way to, and he was easily awakened by a knocking\nwhich began at the door about an hour after. Clym arose and looked out\nof the window. Rain was still falling heavily, the whole expanse of\nheath before him emitting a subdued hiss under the downpour. It was too\ndark to see anything at all. \"Who's there?\" he cried. Light footsteps shifted their position in the porch, and he could just\ndistinguish in a plaintive female voice the words, \"O Clym, come down\nand let me in!\" He flushed hot with agitation. \"Surely it is Eustacia!\" he murmured. If\nso, she had indeed come to him unawares. He hastily got a light, dressed himself, and went down. On his flinging\nopen the door the rays of the candle fell upon a woman closely wrapped\nup, who at once came forward. \"Thomasin!\" he exclaimed in an indescribable tone of disappointment. \"It\nis Thomasin, and on such a night as this! O, where is Eustacia?\" Thomasin it was, wet, frightened, and panting. \"Eustacia? I don't know, Clym; but I can think,\" she said with much\nperturbation. \"Let me come in and rest--I will explain this. There is a\ngreat trouble brewing--my husband and Eustacia!\" \"What, what?\" \"I think my husband is going to leave me or do something dreadful--I\ndon't know what--Clym, will you go and see? I have nobody to help me but\nyou; Eustacia has not yet come home?\" \"No.\" She went on breathlessly: \"Then they are going to run off together! He\ncame indoors tonight about eight o'clock and said in an off-hand way,\n'Tamsie, I have just found that I must go a journey.' 'When?' I\nsaid. 'Tonight,' he said. 'Where?' I asked him. 'I cannot tell you at\npresent,' he said; 'I shall be back again tomorrow.' He then went and\nbusied himself in looking up his things, and took no notice of me at\nall. I expected to see him start, but he did not, and then it came to\nbe ten o'clock, when he said, 'You had better go to bed.' I didn't know\nwhat to do, and I went to bed. I believe he thought I fell asleep, for\nhalf an hour after that he came up and unlocked the oak chest we keep\nmoney in when we have much in the house and took out a roll of something\nwhich I believe was banknotes, though I was not aware that he had 'em\nthere. These he must have got from the bank when he went there the other\nday. What does he want banknotes for, if he is only going off for a day? When he had gone down I thought of Eustacia, and how he had met her the\nnight before--I know he did meet her, Clym, for I followed him part of\nthe way; but I did not like to tell you when you called, and so make you\nthink ill of him, as I did not think it was so serious. Then I could not\nstay in bed; I got up and dressed myself, and when I heard him out in\nthe stable I thought I would come and tell you. So I came downstairs\nwithout any noise and slipped out.\" \"Then he was not absolutely gone when you left?\" \"No. Will you, dear Cousin Clym, go and try to persuade him not to go? He takes no notice of what I say, and puts me off with the story of his\ngoing on a journey, and will be home tomorrow, and all that; but I don't\nbelieve it. I think you could influence him.\" \"I'll go,\" said Clym. \"O, Eustacia!\" Thomasin carried in her arms a large bundle; and having by this time\nseated herself she began to unroll it, when a baby appeared as the\nkernel to the husks--dry, warm, and unconscious of travel or rough\nweather. Thomasin briefly kissed the baby, and then found time to begin\ncrying as she said, \"I brought baby, for I was afraid what might happen\nto her. I suppose it will be her death, but I couldn't leave her with\nRachel!\" Clym hastily put together the logs on the hearth, raked abroad the\nembers, which were scarcely yet extinct, and blew up a flame with the\nbellows. \"Dry yourself,\" he said. \"I'll go and get some more wood.\" \"No, no--don't stay for that. I'll make up the fire. Will you go at\nonce--please will you?\" Yeobright ran upstairs to finish dressing himself. While he was gone\nanother rapping came to the door. This time there was no delusion that\nit might be Eustacia's--the footsteps just preceding it had been heavy\nand slow. Yeobright thinking it might possibly be Fairway with a note in\nanswer, descended again and opened the door. \"Captain Vye?\" he said to a dripping figure. \"Is my granddaughter here?\" said the captain. \"No.\" \"Then where is she?\". \"I don't know.\" \"But you ought to know--you are her husband.\" \"Only in name apparently,\" said Clym with rising excitement. \"I believe\nshe means to elope tonight with Wildeve. I am just going to look to it.\" \"Well, she has left my house; she left about half an hour ago. Who's\nsitting there?\" \"My cousin Thomasin.\" The captain bowed in a preoccupied way to her. \"I only hope it is no\nworse than an elopement,\" he said. \"Worse? What's worse than the worst a wife can do?\" \"Well, I have been told a strange tale. Before starting in search of her\nI called up Charley, my stable lad. I missed my pistols the other day.\" \"Pistols?\" \"He said at the time that he took them down to clean. He has now owned\nthat he took them because he saw Eustacia looking curiously at them; and\nshe afterwards owned to him that she was thinking of taking her life,\nbut bound him to secrecy, and promised never to think of such a thing\nagain.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-03, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-05 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I hardly suppose she will ever have bravado enough to use one\nof them; but it shows what has been lurking in her mind; and people who\nthink of that sort of thing once think of it again.\" \"Where are the pistols?\" \"Safely locked up. O no, she won't touch them again. But there are\nmore ways of letting out life than through a bullet-hole. What did you\nquarrel about so bitterly with her to drive her to all this? You must\nhave treated her badly indeed. Well, I was always against the marriage,\nand I was right.\" \"Are you going with me?\" said Yeobright, paying no attention to the\ncaptain's latter remark. \"If so I can tell you what we quarrelled about\nas we walk along.\" \"Where to?\" \"To Wildeve's--that was her destination, depend upon it.\" Thomasin here broke in, still weeping: \"He said he was only going on a\nsudden short journey; but if so why did he want so much money? O, Clym,\nwhat do you think will happen? I am afraid that you, my poor baby, will\nsoon have no father left to you!\" \"I am off now,\" said Yeobright, stepping into the porch. \"I would fain go with 'ee,\" said the old man doubtfully. \"But I begin to\nbe afraid that my legs will hardly carry me there such a night as this. I am not so young as I was. If they are interrupted in their flight\nshe will be sure to come back to me, and I ought to be at the house to\nreceive her. But be it as 'twill I can't walk to the Quiet Woman, and\nthat's an end on't. I'll go straight home.\" \"It will perhaps be best,\" said Clym. \"Thomasin, dry yourself, and be as\ncomfortable as you can.\" With this he closed the door upon her, and left the house in company\nwith Captain Vye, who parted from him outside the gate, taking the\nmiddle path, which led to Mistover. Clym crossed by the right-hand track\ntowards the inn. Thomasin, being left alone, took off some of her wet garments, carried\nthe baby upstairs to Clym's bed, and then came down to the sitting-room\nagain, where she made a larger fire, and began drying herself. The fire\nsoon flared up the chimney, giving the room an appearance of comfort\nthat was doubled by contrast with the drumming of the storm without,\nwhich snapped at the windowpanes and breathed into the chimney strange\nlow utterances that seemed to be the prologue to some tragedy. But the least part of Thomasin was in the house, for her heart being at\nease about the little girl upstairs she was mentally following Clym on\nhis journey. Having indulged in this imaginary peregrination for\nsome considerable interval, she became impressed with a sense of the\nintolerable slowness of time. But she sat on. The moment then came when\nshe could scarcely sit longer, and it was like a satire on her patience\nto remember that Clym could hardly have reached the inn as yet. At last\nshe went to the baby's bedside. The child was sleeping soundly; but her\nimagination of possibly disastrous events at her home, the predominance\nwithin her of the unseen over the seen, agitated her beyond endurance. She could not refrain from going down and opening the door. The rain\nstill continued, the candlelight falling upon the nearest drops and\nmaking glistening darts of them as they descended across the throng of\ninvisible ones behind. To plunge into that medium was to plunge into\nwater slightly diluted with air. But the difficulty of returning to\nher house at this moment made her all the more desirous of doing\nso--anything was better than suspense. \"I have come here well enough,\"\nshe said, \"and why shouldn't I go back again? It is a mistake for me to\nbe away.\" She hastily fetched the infant, wrapped it up, cloaked herself as\nbefore, and shoveling the ashes over the fire, to prevent accidents,\nwent into the open air. Pausing first to put the door key in its\nold place behind the shutter, she resolutely turned her face to the\nconfronting pile of firmamental darkness beyond the palings, and stepped\ninto its midst. But Thomasin's imagination being so actively engaged\nelsewhere, the night and the weather had for her no terror beyond that\nof their actual discomfort and difficulty. She was soon ascending Blooms-End valley and traversing the undulations\non the side of the hill. The noise of the wind over the heath was\nshrill, and as if it whistled for joy at finding a night so congenial as\nthis. Sometimes the path led her to hollows between thickets of tall\nand dripping bracken, dead, though not yet prostrate, which enclosed her\nlike a pool. When they were more than usually tall she lifted the baby\nto the top of her head, that it might be out of the reach of their\ndrenching fronds. On higher ground, where the wind was brisk and\nsustained, the rain flew in a level flight without sensible descent, so\nthat it was beyond all power to imagine the remoteness of the point\nat which it left the bosoms of the clouds. Here self-defence was\nimpossible, and individual drops stuck into her like the arrows into\nSaint Sebastian. She was enabled to avoid puddles by the nebulous\npaleness which signified their presence, though beside anything less\ndark than the heath they themselves would have appeared as blackness. Yet in spite of all this Thomasin was not sorry that she had started. To her there were not, as to Eustacia, demons in the air, and malice\nin every bush and bough. The drops which lashed her face were not\nscorpions, but prosy rain; Egdon in the mass was no monster whatever,\nbut impersonal open ground. Her fears of the place were rational, her\ndislikes of its worst moods reasonable. At this time it was in her view\na windy, wet place, in which a person might experience much discomfort,\nlose the path without care, and possibly catch cold. If the path is well known the difficulty at such times of keeping\ntherein is not altogether great, from its familiar feel to the feet; but\nonce lost it is irrecoverable. Owing to her baby, who somewhat impeded\nThomasin's view forward and distracted her mind, she did at last lose\nthe track. This mishap occurred when she was descending an open slope\nabout two-thirds home. Instead of attempting, by wandering hither and\nthither, the hopeless task of finding such a mere thread, she went\nstraight on, trusting for guidance to her general knowledge of the\ncontours, which was scarcely surpassed by Clym's or by that of the\nheath-croppers themselves. At length Thomasin reached a hollow and began to discern through the\nrain a faint blotted radiance, which presently assumed the oblong form\nof an open door. She knew that no house stood hereabouts, and was soon\naware of the nature of the door by its height above the ground. \"Why, it is Diggory Venn's van, surely!\" she said. A certain secluded spot near Rainbarrow was, she knew, often Venn's\nchosen centre when staying in this neighbourhood; and she guessed at\nonce that she had stumbled upon this mysterious retreat. The question\narose in her mind whether or not she should ask him to guide her into\nthe path. In her anxiety to reach home she decided that she would appeal\nto him, notwithstanding the strangeness of appearing before his eyes at\nthis place and season. But when, in pursuance of this resolve, Thomasin\nreached the van and looked in she found it to be untenanted; though\nthere was no doubt that it was the reddleman's. The fire was burning in\nthe stove, the lantern hung from the nail. Round the doorway the floor\nwas merely sprinkled with rain, and not saturated, which told her that\nthe door had not long been opened. While she stood uncertainly looking in Thomasin heard a footstep\nadvancing from the darkness behind her, and turning, beheld the\nwell-known form in corduroy, lurid from head to foot, the lantern beams\nfalling upon him through an intervening gauze of raindrops. \"I thought you went down the slope,\" he said, without noticing her face. \"How do you come back here again?\" \"Diggory?\" said Thomasin faintly. \"Who are you?\" said Venn, still unperceiving. \"And why were you crying\nso just now?\" \"O, Diggory! don't you know me?\" said she. \"But of course you don't,\nwrapped up like this. What do you mean? I have not been crying here, and\nI have not been here before.\" Venn then came nearer till he could see the illuminated side of her\nform. \"Mrs. Wildeve!\" he exclaimed, starting.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-05, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"What a time for us to meet! And the baby too! What dreadful thing can have brought you out on such a\nnight as this?\" She could not immediately answer; and without asking her permission he\nhopped into his van, took her by the arm, and drew her up after him. \"What is it?\" he continued when they stood within. \"I have lost my way coming from Blooms-End, and I am in a great hurry to\nget home. Please show me as quickly as you can! It is so silly of me not\nto know Egdon better, and I cannot think how I came to lose the path. Show me quickly, Diggory, please.\" \"Yes, of course. I will go with 'ee. But you came to me before this,\nMrs. Wildeve?\" \"I only came this minute.\" \"That's strange. I was lying down here asleep about five minutes ago,\nwith the door shut to keep out the weather, when the brushing of a\nwoman's clothes over the heath-bushes just outside woke me up, for I\ndon't sleep heavy, and at the same time I heard a sobbing or crying from\nthe same woman. I opened my door and held out my lantern, and just as\nfar as the light would reach I saw a woman; she turned her head when\nthe light sheened on her, and then hurried on downhill. I hung up the\nlantern, and was curious enough to pull on my things and dog her a few\nsteps, but I could see nothing of her any more. That was where I had\nbeen when you came up; and when I saw you I thought you were the same\none.\" \"Perhaps it was one of the heathfolk going home?\" \"No, it couldn't be. 'Tis too late. The noise of her gown over the he'th\nwas of a whistling sort that nothing but silk will make.\" \"It wasn't I, then. My dress is not silk, you see.... Are we anywhere in\na line between Mistover and the inn?\" \"Well, yes; not far out.\" \"Ah, I wonder if it was she! Diggory, I must go at once!\" She jumped down from the van before he was aware, when Venn unhooked the\nlantern and leaped down after her. \"I'll take the baby, ma'am,\" he said. \"You must be tired out by the weight.\" Thomasin hesitated a moment, and then delivered the baby into Venn's\nhands. \"Don't squeeze her, Diggory,\" she said, \"or hurt her little arm;\nand keep the cloak close over her like this, so that the rain may not\ndrop in her face.\" \"I will,\" said Venn earnestly. \"As if I could hurt anything belonging to\nyou!\" \"I only meant accidentally,\" said Thomasin. \"The baby is dry enough, but you are pretty wet,\" said the reddleman\nwhen, in closing the door of his cart to padlock it, he noticed on the\nfloor a ring of water drops where her cloak had hung from her. Thomasin followed him as he wound right and left to avoid the larger\nbushes, stopping occasionally and covering the lantern, while he looked\nover his shoulder to gain some idea of the position of Rainbarrow above\nthem, which it was necessary to keep directly behind their backs to\npreserve a proper course. \"You are sure the rain does not fall upon baby?\" \"Quite sure. May I ask how old he is, ma'am?\" \"He!\" said Thomasin reproachfully. \"Anybody can see better than that in\na moment. She is nearly two months old. How far is it now to the inn?\" \"A little over a quarter of a mile.\" \"Will you walk a little faster?\" \"I was afraid you could not keep up.\" \"I am very anxious to get there. Ah, there is a light from the window!\" \"'Tis not from the window. That's a gig-lamp, to the best of my belief.\" \"O!\" said Thomasin in despair. \"I wish I had been there sooner--give me\nthe baby, Diggory--you can go back now.\" \"I must go all the way,\" said Venn. \"There is a quag between us and\nthat light, and you will walk into it up to your neck unless I take you\nround.\" \"But the light is at the inn, and there is no quag in front of that.\" \"No, the light is below the inn some two or three hundred yards.\" \"Never mind,\" said Thomasin hurriedly. \"Go towards the light, and not\ntowards the inn.\" \"Yes,\" answered Venn, swerving round in obedience; and, after a pause,\n\"I wish you would tell me what this great trouble is. I think you have\nproved that I can be trusted.\" \"There are some things that cannot be--cannot be told to--\" And then her\nheart rose into her throat, and she could say no more. </CHAPTER>\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-06", "answer": "Eustacia, Wildeve, Clym, Captain Vye, Susan Nunsuch, Johnny, Thomasin, Venn, Rainbarrow, Quiet Woman Inn, letter from Clym, bedroom, despair, stormy night, suicide, pistols, effigy in wax, pins, burning effigy, child, losing her way, guidance, running off together, missed opportunity, signaling, rain, important decisions, relationships, emotional turmoil, fate, isolation"}]