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diff --git a/482-0.txt b/482-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c66f5cc --- /dev/null +++ b/482-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15484 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Woodlanders, by Thomas Hardy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Woodlanders + +Author: Thomas Hardy + +Release Date: April, 1996 [eBook #482] +[Most recently updated: February 4, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOODLANDERS *** + + + + +The Woodlanders + +by Thomas Hardy + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + CHAPTER XXX. + CHAPTER XXXI. + CHAPTER XXXII. + CHAPTER XXXIII. + CHAPTER XXXIV. + CHAPTER XXXV. + CHAPTER XXXVI. + CHAPTER XXXVII. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + CHAPTER XXXIX. + CHAPTER XL. + CHAPTER XLI. + CHAPTER XLII. + CHAPTER XLIII. + CHAPTER XLIV. + CHAPTER XLV. + CHAPTER XLVI. + CHAPTER XLVII. + CHAPTER XLVIII. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +The rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should trace the +forsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from Bristol to +the south shore of England, would find himself during the latter half +of his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands, +interspersed with apple-orchards. Here the trees, timber or +fruit-bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged by +their drip and shade, stretching over the road with easeful +horizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air an adequate +support for their limbs. At one place, where a hill is crossed, the +largest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the head +of thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting. The spot is +lonely. + +The physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degree +that is not reached by mere dales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-like +stillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. The contrast of +what is with what might be probably accounts for this. To step, for +instance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantation +into the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness for +a moment, was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simple +absence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn. + +At this spot, on the lowering evening of a by-gone winter’s day, there +stood a man who had entered upon the scene much in the aforesaid +manner. Alighting into the road from a stile hard by, he, though by no +means a “chosen vessel” for impressions, was temporarily influenced by +some such feeling of being suddenly more alone than before he had +emerged upon the highway. + +It could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress that +he did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, after a +while, that though there might be a sombre beauty in the scenery, music +in the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentiment +of this old turnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way. The +dead men’s work that had been expended in climbing that hill, the +blistered soles that had trodden it, and the tears that had wetted it, +were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any but +practical things. + +He looked north and south, and mechanically prodded the ground with his +walking-stick. A closer glance at his face corroborated the testimony +of his clothes. It was self-complacent, yet there was small apparent +ground for such complacence. Nothing irradiated it; to the eye of the +magician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expression +enthroned there was absolute submission to and belief in a little +assortment of forms and habitudes. + +At first not a soul appeared who could enlighten him as he desired, or +seemed likely to appear that night. But presently a slight noise of +laboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse’s shoe-tips became +audible; and there loomed in the notch of the hill and plantation that +the road formed here at the summit a carrier’s van drawn by a single +horse. When it got nearer, he said, with some relief to himself, “’Tis +Mrs. Dollery’s—this will help me.” + +The vehicle was half full of passengers, mostly women. He held up his +stick at its approach, and the woman who was driving drew rein. + +“I’ve been trying to find a short way to Little Hintock this last +half-hour, Mrs. Dollery,” he said. “But though I’ve been to Great +Hintock and Hintock House half a dozen times I am at fault about the +small village. You can help me, I dare say?” + +She assured him that she could—that as she went to Great Hintock her +van passed near it—that it was only up the lane that branched out of +the lane into which she was about to turn—just ahead. “Though,” +continued Mrs. Dollery, “’tis such a little small place that, as a town +gentleman, you’d need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don’t +know where ’tis. Bedad! I wouldn’t live there if they’d pay me to. Now +at Great Hintock you do see the world a bit.” + +He mounted and sat beside her, with his feet outside, where they were +ever and anon brushed over by the horse’s tail. + +This van, driven and owned by Mrs. Dollery, was rather a movable +attachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to those who knew +it well. The old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color of +heather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted by +harness and drudgery from colthood—though if all had their rights, he +ought, symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of some +Eastern plain instead of tugging here—had trodden this road almost +daily for twenty years. Even his subjection was not made congruous +throughout, for the harness being too short, his tail was not drawn +through the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to one +side. He knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles of +ground between Hintock and Sherton Abbas—the market-town to which he +journeyed—as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by a +Dumpy level. + +The vehicle had a square black tilt which nodded with the motion of the +wheels, and at a point in it over the driver’s head was a hook to which +the reins were hitched at times, when they formed a catenary curve from +the horse’s shoulders. Somewhere about the axles was a loose chain, +whose only known purpose was to clink as it went. Mrs. Dollery, having +to hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore, +especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown for +modesty’s sake, and instead of a bonnet a felt hat tied down with a +handkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequently +subject. In the rear of the van was a glass window, which she cleaned +with her pocket-handkerchief every market-day before starting. Looking +at the van from the back, the spectator could thus see through its +interior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he saw +without, but intruded on by the profiles of the seated passengers, who, +as they rumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animated +private converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that their +mannerisms and facial peculiarities were sharply defined to the public +eye. + +This hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not the +happiest, of the week for them. Snugly ensconced under the tilt, they +could forget the sorrows of the world without, and survey life and +recapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles. + +The passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and while +the new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in a +confidential chat about him as about other people, which the noise of +the van rendered inaudible to himself and Mrs. Dollery, sitting +forward. + +“’Tis Barber Percombe—he that’s got the waxen woman in his window at +the top of Abbey Street,” said one. “What business can bring him from +his shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter, but a +master-barber that’s left off his pole because ’tis not genteel!” + +They listened to his conversation, but Mr. Percombe, though he had +nodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiosity +which he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which had +animated the inside of the van before his arrival was checked +thenceforward. + +Thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane, +whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could be discerned in +the dusk, about half a mile to the right, gardens and orchards sunk in +a concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland. From this +self-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke, +which the eye of imagination could trace downward to their root on +quiet hearth-stones festooned overhead with hams and flitches. It was +one of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where may +usually be found more meditation than action, and more passivity than +meditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results in +inferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from time to time, no less +than in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly Sophoclean +are enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions and +closely knit interdependence of the lives therein. + +This place was the Little Hintock of the master-barber’s search. The +coming night gradually obscured the smoke of the chimneys, but the +position of the sequestered little world could still be distinguished +by a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through the +leafless boughs, and the undiscerned songsters they bore, in the form +of balls of feathers, at roost among them. + +Out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smaller lane, at the +corner of which the barber alighted, Mrs. Dollery’s van going on to the +larger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as an +exemplar of the world’s movements was not particularly apparent in its +means of approach. + +“A very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, is in league +with the devil, lives in the place you be going to—not because there’s +anybody for’n to cure there, but because ’tis the middle of his +district.” + +The observation was flung at the barber by one of the women at parting, +as a last attempt to get at his errand that way. + +But he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrian plunged +towards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaves +which nearly buried the road or street of the hamlet. As very few +people except themselves passed this way after dark, a majority of the +denizens of Little Hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and on +this account Mr. Percombe made it his business to stop opposite the +casements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showed +that he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things he +observed within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here. + +Only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses, whose +size, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified that +notwithstanding their remoteness they must formerly have been, if they +were not still, inhabited by people of a certain social standing, being +neglected by him entirely. Smells of pomace, and the hiss of fermenting +cider, which reached him from the back quarters of other tenements, +revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants, and joined +with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot. + +Half a dozen dwellings were passed without result. The next, which +stood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance, +the flickering brightness from the inside shining up the chimney and +making a luminous mist of the emerging smoke. The interior, as seen +through the window, caused him to draw up with a terminative air and +watch. The house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, which +opened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbon +of light fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without. +Every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flit +for a moment across the out-coming rays and disappear again into the +night. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +In the room from which this cheerful blaze proceeded, he beheld a girl +seated on a willow chair, and busily occupied by the light of the fire, +which was ample and of wood. With a bill-hook in one hand and a leather +glove, much too large for her, on the other, she was making spars, such +as are used by thatchers, with great rapidity. She wore a leather apron +for this purpose, which was also much too large for her figure. On her +left hand lay a bundle of the straight, smooth sticks called +spar-gads—the raw material of her manufacture; on her right, a heap of +chips and ends—the refuse—with which the fire was maintained; in front, +a pile of the finished articles. To produce them she took up each gad, +looked critically at it from end to end, cut it to length, split it +into four, and sharpened each of the quarters with dexterous blows, +which brought it to a triangular point precisely resembling that of a +bayonet. + +Beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestick +stood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool, +with a deal top nailed on, the white surface of the latter contrasting +oddly with the black carved oak of the substructure. The social +position of the household in the past was almost as definitively shown +by the presence of this article as that of an esquire or nobleman by +his old helmets or shields. It had been customary for every well-to-do +villager, whose tenure was by copy of court-roll, or in any way more +permanent than that of the mere cotter, to keep a pair of these stools +for the use of his own dead; but for the last generation or two a +feeling of cui bono had led to the discontinuance of the custom, and +the stools were frequently made use of in the manner described. + +The young woman laid down the bill-hook for a moment and examined the +palm of her right hand, which, unlike the other, was ungloved, and +showed little hardness or roughness about it. The palm was red and +blistering, as if this present occupation were not frequent enough with +her to subdue it to what it worked in. As with so many right hands born +to manual labor, there was nothing in its fundamental shape to bear out +the physiological conventionalism that gradations of birth, gentle or +mean, show themselves primarily in the form of this member. Nothing but +a cast of the die of destiny had decided that the girl should handle +the tool; and the fingers which clasped the heavy ash haft might have +skilfully guided the pencil or swept the string, had they only been set +to do it in good time. + +Her face had the usual fulness of expression which is developed by a +life of solitude. Where the eyes of a multitude beat like waves upon a +countenance they seem to wear away its individuality; but in the still +water of privacy every tentacle of feeling and sentiment shoots out in +visible luxuriance, to be interpreted as readily as a child’s look by +an intruder. In years she was no more than nineteen or twenty, but the +necessity of taking thought at a too early period of life had forced +the provisional curves of her childhood’s face to a premature finality. +Thus she had but little pretension to beauty, save in one prominent +particular—her hair. Its abundance made it almost unmanageable; its +color was, roughly speaking, and as seen here by firelight, brown, but +careful notice, or an observation by day, would have revealed that its +true shade was a rare and beautiful approximation to chestnut. + +On this one bright gift of Time to the particular victim of his now +before us the new-comer’s eyes were fixed; meanwhile the fingers of his +right hand mechanically played over something sticking up from his +waistcoat-pocket—the bows of a pair of scissors, whose polish made them +feebly responsive to the light within. In her present beholder’s mind +the scene formed by the girlish spar-maker composed itself into a +post-Raffaelite picture of extremest quality, wherein the girl’s hair +alone, as the focus of observation, was depicted with intensity and +distinctness, and her face, shoulders, hands, and figure in general, +being a blurred mass of unimportant detail lost in haze and obscurity. + +He hesitated no longer, but tapped at the door and entered. The young +woman turned at the crunch of his boots on the sanded floor, and +exclaiming, “Oh, Mr. Percombe, how you frightened me!” quite lost her +color for a moment. + +He replied, “You should shut your door—then you’d hear folk open it.” + +“I can’t,” she said; “the chimney smokes so. Mr. Percombe, you look as +unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. Surely you +have not come out here on my account—for—” + +“Yes—to have your answer about this.” He touched her head with his +cane, and she winced. “Do you agree?” he continued. “It is necessary +that I should know at once, as the lady is soon going away, and it +takes time to make up.” + +“Don’t press me—it worries me. I was in hopes you had thought no more +of it. I can _not_ part with it—so there!” + +“Now, look here, Marty,” said the barber, sitting down on the +coffin-stool table. “How much do you get for making these spars?” + +“Hush—father’s up-stairs awake, and he don’t know that I am doing his +work.” + +“Well, now tell me,” said the man, more softly. “How much do you get?” + +“Eighteenpence a thousand,” she said, reluctantly. + +“Who are you making them for?” + +“Mr. Melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here.” + +“And how many can you make in a day?” + +“In a day and half the night, three bundles—that’s a thousand and a +half.” + +“Two and threepence.” The barber paused. “Well, look here,” he +continued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, which +calculation had been the reduction to figures of the probable monetary +magnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of her present +purse and the woman’s love of comeliness, “here’s a sovereign—a gold +sovereign, almost new.” He held it out between his finger and thumb. +“That’s as much as you’d earn in a week and a half at that rough man’s +work, and it’s yours for just letting me snip off what you’ve got too +much of.” + +The girl’s bosom moved a very little. “Why can’t the lady send to some +other girl who don’t value her hair—not to me?” she exclaimed. + +“Why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and ’tis +a shade you can’t match by dyeing. But you are not going to refuse me +now I’ve come all the way from Sherton o’ purpose?” + +“I say I won’t sell it—to you or anybody.” + +“Now listen,” and he drew up a little closer beside her. “The lady is +very rich, and won’t be particular to a few shillings; so I will +advance to this on my own responsibility—I’ll make the one sovereign +two, rather than go back empty-handed.” + +“No, no, no!” she cried, beginning to be much agitated. “You are +a-tempting me, Mr. Percombe. You go on like the Devil to Dr. Faustus in +the penny book. But I don’t want your money, and won’t agree. Why did +you come? I said when you got me into your shop and urged me so much, +that I didn’t mean to sell my hair!” The speaker was hot and stern. + +“Marty, now hearken. The lady that wants it wants it badly. And, +between you and me, you’d better let her have it. ’Twill be bad for you +if you don’t.” + +“Bad for me? Who is she, then?” + +The barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question. + +“I am not at liberty to tell you. And as she is going abroad soon it +makes no difference who she is at all.” + +“She wants it to go abroad wi’?” + +Percombe assented by a nod. The girl regarded him reflectively. “Barber +Percombe,” she said, “I know who ’tis. ’Tis she at the House—Mrs. +Charmond!” + +“That’s my secret. However, if you agree to let me have it, I’ll tell +you in confidence.” + +“I’ll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. It is +Mrs. Charmond.” + +The barber dropped his voice. “Well—it is. You sat in front of her in +church the other day, and she noticed how exactly your hair matched her +own. Ever since then she’s been hankering for it, and at last decided +to get it. As she won’t wear it till she goes off abroad, she knows +nobody will recognize the change. I’m commissioned to get it for her, +and then it is to be made up. I shouldn’t have vamped all these miles +for any less important employer. Now, mind—’tis as much as my business +with her is worth if it should be known that I’ve let out her name; but +honor between us two, Marty, and you’ll say nothing that would injure +me?” + +“I don’t wish to tell upon her,” said Marty, coolly. “But my hair is my +own, and I’m going to keep it.” + +“Now, that’s not fair, after what I’ve told you,” said the nettled +barber. “You see, Marty, as you are in the same parish, and in one of +her cottages, and your father is ill, and wouldn’t like to turn out, it +would be as well to oblige her. I say that as a friend. But I won’t +press you to make up your mind to-night. You’ll be coming to market +to-morrow, I dare say, and you can call then. If you think it over +you’ll be inclined to bring what I want, I know.” + +“I’ve nothing more to say,” she answered. + +Her companion saw from her manner that it was useless to urge her +further by speech. “As you are a trusty young woman,” he said, “I’ll +put these sovereigns up here for ornament, that you may see how +handsome they are. Bring the hair to-morrow, or return the sovereigns.” +He stuck them edgewise into the frame of a small mantle looking-glass. +“I hope you’ll bring it, for your sake and mine. I should have thought +she could have suited herself elsewhere; but as it’s her fancy it must +be indulged if possible. If you cut it off yourself, mind how you do it +so as to keep all the locks one way.” He showed her how this was to be +done. + +“But I sha’nt,” she replied, with laconic indifference. “I value my +looks too much to spoil ’em. She wants my hair to get another lover +with; though if stories are true she’s broke the heart of many a noble +gentleman already.” + +“Lord, it’s wonderful how you guess things, Marty,” said the barber. +“I’ve had it from them that know that there certainly is some foreign +gentleman in her eye. However, mind what I ask.” + +“She’s not going to get him through me.” + +Percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane +on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. “Marty South,” he +said, with deliberate emphasis, “_you’ve got a lover yourself_, and +that’s why you won’t let it go!” + +She reddened so intensely as to pass the mild blush that suffices to +heighten beauty; she put the yellow leather glove on one hand, took up +the hook with the other, and sat down doggedly to her work without +turning her face to him again. He regarded her head for a moment, went +to the door, and with one look back at her, departed on his way +homeward. + +Marty pursued her occupation for a few minutes, then suddenly laying +down the bill-hook, she jumped up and went to the back of the room, +where she opened a door which disclosed a staircase so whitely scrubbed +that the grain of the wood was wellnigh sodden away by such cleansing. +At the top she gently approached a bedroom, and without entering, said, +“Father, do you want anything?” + +A weak voice inside answered in the negative; adding, “I should be all +right by to-morrow if it were not for the tree!” + +“The tree again—always the tree! Oh, father, don’t worry so about that. +You know it can do you no harm.” + +“Who have ye had talking to ye down-stairs?” + +“A Sherton man called—nothing to trouble about,” she said, soothingly. +“Father,” she went on, “can Mrs. Charmond turn us out of our house if +she’s minded to?” + +“Turn us out? No. Nobody can turn us out till my poor soul is turned +out of my body. ’Tis life-hold, like Ambrose Winterborne’s. But when my +life drops ’twill be hers—not till then.” His words on this subject so +far had been rational and firm enough. But now he lapsed into his +moaning strain: “And the tree will do it—that tree will soon be the +death of me.” + +“Nonsense, you know better. How can it be?” She refrained from further +speech, and descended to the ground-floor again. + +“Thank Heaven, then,” she said to herself, “what belongs to me I keep.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +The lights in the village went out, house after house, till there only +remained two in the darkness. One of these came from a residence on the +hill-side, of which there is nothing to say at present; the other shone +from the window of Marty South. Precisely the same outward effect was +produced here, however, by her rising when the clock struck ten and +hanging up a thick cloth curtain. The door it was necessary to keep +ajar in hers, as in most cottages, because of the smoke; but she +obviated the effect of the ribbon of light through the chink by hanging +a cloth over that also. She was one of those people who, if they have +to work harder than their neighbors, prefer to keep the necessity a +secret as far as possible; and but for the slight sounds of +wood-splintering which came from within, no wayfarer would have +perceived that here the cottager did not sleep as elsewhere. + +Eleven, twelve, one o’clock struck; the heap of spars grew higher, and +the pile of chips and ends more bulky. Even the light on the hill had +now been extinguished; but still she worked on. When the temperature of +the night without had fallen so low as to make her chilly, she opened a +large blue umbrella to ward off the draught from the door. The two +sovereigns confronted her from the looking-glass in such a manner as to +suggest a pair of jaundiced eyes on the watch for an opportunity. +Whenever she sighed for weariness she lifted her gaze towards them, but +withdrew it quickly, stroking her tresses with her fingers for a +moment, as if to assure herself that they were still secure. When the +clock struck three she arose and tied up the spars she had last made in +a bundle resembling those that lay against the wall. + +She wrapped round her a long red woollen cravat and opened the door. +The night in all its fulness met her flatly on the threshold, like the +very brink of an absolute void, or the antemundane Ginnung-Gap believed +in by her Teuton forefathers. For her eyes were fresh from the blaze, +and here there was no street-lamp or lantern to form a kindly +transition between the inner glare and the outer dark. A lingering wind +brought to her ear the creaking sound of two over-crowded branches in +the neighboring wood which were rubbing each other into wounds, and +other vocalized sorrows of the trees, together with the screech of +owls, and the fluttering tumble of some awkward wood-pigeon +ill-balanced on its roosting-bough. + +But the pupils of her young eyes soon expanded, and she could see well +enough for her purpose. Taking a bundle of spars under each arm, and +guided by the serrated line of tree-tops against the sky, she went some +hundred yards or more down the lane till she reached a long open shed, +carpeted around with the dead leaves that lay about everywhere. Night, +that strange personality, which within walls brings ominous +introspectiveness and self-distrust, but under the open sky banishes +such subjective anxieties as too trivial for thought, inspired Marty +South with a less perturbed and brisker manner now. She laid the spars +on the ground within the shed and returned for more, going to and fro +till her whole manufactured stock were deposited here. + +This erection was the wagon-house of the chief man of business +hereabout, Mr. George Melbury, the timber, bark, and copse-ware +merchant for whom Marty’s father did work of this sort by the piece. It +formed one of the many rambling out-houses which surrounded his +dwelling, an equally irregular block of building, whose immense +chimneys could just be discerned even now. The four huge wagons under +the shed were built on those ancient lines whose proportions have been +ousted by modern patterns, their shapes bulging and curving at the base +and ends like Trafalgar line-of-battle ships, with which venerable +hulks, indeed, these vehicles evidenced a constructed spirit curiously +in harmony. One was laden with sheep-cribs, another with hurdles, +another with ash poles, and the fourth, at the foot of which she had +placed her thatching-spars was half full of similar bundles. + +She was pausing a moment with that easeful sense of accomplishment +which follows work done that has been a hard struggle in the doing, +when she heard a woman’s voice on the other side of the hedge say, +anxiously, “George!” In a moment the name was repeated, with “Do come +indoors! What are you doing there?” + +The cart-house adjoined the garden, and before Marty had moved she saw +enter the latter from the timber-merchant’s back door an elderly woman +sheltering a candle with her hand, the light from which cast a moving +thorn-pattern of shade on Marty’s face. Its rays soon fell upon a man +whose clothes were roughly thrown on, standing in advance of the +speaker. He was a thin, slightly stooping figure, with a small nervous +mouth and a face cleanly shaven; and he walked along the path with his +eyes bent on the ground. In the pair Marty South recognized her +employer Melbury and his wife. She was the second Mrs. Melbury, the +first having died shortly after the birth of the timber-merchant’s only +child. + +“’Tis no use to stay in bed,” he said, as soon as she came up to where +he was pacing restlessly about. “I can’t sleep—I keep thinking of +things, and worrying about the girl, till I’m quite in a fever of +anxiety.” He went on to say that he could not think why “she (Marty +knew he was speaking of his daughter) did not answer his letter. She +must be ill—she must, certainly,” he said. + +“No, no. ’Tis all right, George,” said his wife; and she assured him +that such things always did appear so gloomy in the night-time, if +people allowed their minds to run on them; that when morning came it +was seen that such fears were nothing but shadows. “Grace is as well as +you or I,” she declared. + +But he persisted that she did not see all—that she did not see as much +as he. His daughter’s not writing was only one part of his worry. On +account of her he was anxious concerning money affairs, which he would +never alarm his mind about otherwise. The reason he gave was that, as +she had nobody to depend upon for a provision but himself, he wished +her, when he was gone, to be securely out of risk of poverty. + +To this Mrs. Melbury replied that Grace would be sure to marry well, +and that hence a hundred pounds more or less from him would not make +much difference. + +Her husband said that that was what she, Mrs. Melbury, naturally +thought; but there she was wrong, and in that lay the source of his +trouble. “I have a plan in my head about her,” he said; “and according +to my plan she won’t marry a rich man.” + +“A plan for her not to marry well?” said his wife, surprised. + +“Well, in one sense it is that,” replied Melbury. “It is a plan for her +to marry a particular person, and as he has not so much money as she +might expect, it might be called as you call it. I may not be able to +carry it out; and even if I do, it may not be a good thing for her. I +want her to marry Giles Winterborne.” + +His companion repeated the name. “Well, it is all right,” she said, +presently. “He adores the very ground she walks on; only he’s close, +and won’t show it much.” + +Marty South appeared startled, and could not tear herself away. + +Yes, the timber-merchant asserted, he knew that well enough. +Winterborne had been interested in his daughter for years; that was +what had led him into the notion of their union. And he knew that she +used to have no objection to him. But it was not any difficulty about +that which embarrassed him. It was that, since he had educated her so +well, and so long, and so far above the level of daughters thereabout, +it was _wasting her_ to give her to a man of no higher standing than +the young man in question. + +“That’s what I have been thinking,” said Mrs. Melbury. + +“Well, then, Lucy, now you’ve hit it,” answered the timber-merchant, +with feeling. “There lies my trouble. I vowed to let her marry him, and +to make her as valuable as I could to him by schooling her as many +years and as thoroughly as possible. I mean to keep my vow. I made it +because I did his father a terrible wrong; and it was a weight on my +conscience ever since that time till this scheme of making amends +occurred to me through seeing that Giles liked her.” + +“Wronged his father?” asked Mrs. Melbury. + +“Yes, grievously wronged him,” said her husband. + +“Well, don’t think of it to-night,” she urged. “Come indoors.” + +“No, no, the air cools my head. I shall not stay long.” He was silent a +while; then he told her, as nearly as Marty could gather, that his +first wife, his daughter Grace’s mother, was first the sweetheart of +Winterborne’s father, who loved her tenderly, till he, the speaker, won +her away from him by a trick, because he wanted to marry her himself. +He sadly went on to say that the other man’s happiness was ruined by +it; that though he married Winterborne’s mother, it was but a +half-hearted business with him. Melbury added that he was afterwards +very miserable at what he had done; but that as time went on, and the +children grew up, and seemed to be attached to each other, he +determined to do all he could to right the wrong by letting his +daughter marry the lad; not only that, but to give her the best +education he could afford, so as to make the gift as valuable a one as +it lay in his power to bestow. “I still mean to do it,” said Melbury. + +“Then do,” said she. + +“But all these things trouble me,” said he; “for I feel I am +sacrificing her for my own sin; and I think of her, and often come down +here and look at this.” + +“Look at what?” asked his wife. + +He took the candle from her hand, held it to the ground, and removed a +tile which lay in the garden-path. “’Tis the track of her shoe that she +made when she ran down here the day before she went away all those +months ago. I covered it up when she was gone; and when I come here and +look at it, I ask myself again, why should she be sacrificed to a poor +man?” + +“It is not altogether a sacrifice,” said the woman. “He is in love with +her, and he’s honest and upright. If she encourages him, what can you +wish for more?” + +“I wish for nothing definite. But there’s a lot of things possible for +her. Why, Mrs. Charmond is wanting some refined young lady, I hear, to +go abroad with her—as companion or something of the kind. She’d jump at +Grace.” + +“That’s all uncertain. Better stick to what’s sure.” + +“True, true,” said Melbury; “and I hope it will be for the best. Yes, +let me get ’em married up as soon as I can, so as to have it over and +done with.” He continued looking at the imprint, while he added, +“Suppose she should be dying, and never make a track on this path any +more?” + +“She’ll write soon, depend upon’t. Come, ’tis wrong to stay here and +brood so.” + +He admitted it, but said he could not help it. “Whether she write or +no, I shall fetch her in a few days.” And thus speaking, he covered the +track, and preceded his wife indoors. + +Melbury, perhaps, was an unlucky man in having within him the sentiment +which could indulge in this foolish fondness about the imprint of a +daughter’s footstep. Nature does not carry on her government with a +view to such feelings, and when advancing years render the open hearts +of those who possess them less dexterous than formerly in shutting +against the blast, they must suffer “buffeting at will by rain and +storm” no less than Little Celandines. + +But her own existence, and not Mr. Melbury’s, was the centre of Marty’s +consciousness, and it was in relation to this that the matter struck +her as she slowly withdrew. + +“That, then, is the secret of it all,” she said. “And Giles Winterborne +is not for me, and the less I think of him the better.” + +She returned to her cottage. The sovereigns were staring at her from +the looking-glass as she had left them. With a preoccupied countenance, +and with tears in her eyes, she got a pair of scissors, and began +mercilessly cutting off the long locks of her hair, arranging and tying +them with their points all one way, as the barber had directed. Upon +the pale scrubbed deal of the coffin-stool table they stretched like +waving and ropy weeds over the washed gravel-bed of a clear stream. + +She would not turn again to the little looking-glass, out of humanity +to herself, knowing what a deflowered visage would look back at her, +and almost break her heart; she dreaded it as much as did her own +ancestral goddess Sif the reflection in the pool after the rape of her +locks by Loke the malicious. She steadily stuck to business, wrapped +the hair in a parcel, and sealed it up, after which she raked out the +fire and went to bed, having first set up an alarum made of a candle +and piece of thread, with a stone attached. + +But such a reminder was unnecessary to-night. Having tossed till about +five o’clock, Marty heard the sparrows walking down their long holes in +the thatch above her sloping ceiling to their orifice at the eaves; +whereupon she also arose, and descended to the ground-floor again. + +It was still dark, but she began moving about the house in those +automatic initiatory acts and touches which represent among housewives +the installation of another day. While thus engaged she heard the +rumbling of Mr. Melbury’s wagons, and knew that there, too, the day’s +toil had begun. + +An armful of gads thrown on the still hot embers caused them to blaze +up cheerfully and bring her diminished head-gear into sudden prominence +as a shadow. At this a step approached the door. + +“Are folk astir here yet?” inquired a voice she knew well. + +“Yes, Mr. Winterborne,” said Marty, throwing on a tilt bonnet, which +completely hid the recent ravages of the scissors. “Come in!” + +The door was flung back, and there stepped in upon the mat a man not +particularly young for a lover, nor particularly mature for a person of +affairs. There was reserve in his glance, and restraint upon his mouth. +He carried a horn lantern which hung upon a swivel, and wheeling as it +dangled marked grotesque shapes upon the shadier part of the walls. + +He said that he had looked in on his way down, to tell her that they +did not expect her father to make up his contract if he was not well. +Mr. Melbury would give him another week, and they would go their +journey with a short load that day. + +“They are done,” said Marty, “and lying in the cart-house.” + +“Done!” he repeated. “Your father has not been too ill to work after +all, then?” + +She made some evasive reply. “I’ll show you where they be, if you are +going down,” she added. + +They went out and walked together, the pattern of the air-holes in the +top of the lantern being thrown upon the mist overhead, where they +appeared of giant size, as if reaching the tent-shaped sky. They had no +remarks to make to each other, and they uttered none. Hardly anything +could be more isolated or more self-contained than the lives of these +two walking here in the lonely antelucan hour, when gray shades, +material and mental, are so very gray. And yet, looked at in a certain +way, their lonely courses formed no detached design at all, but were +part of the pattern in the great web of human doings then weaving in +both hemispheres, from the White Sea to Cape Horn. + +The shed was reached, and she pointed out the spars. Winterborne +regarded them silently, then looked at her. + +“Now, Marty, I believe—” he said, and shook his head. + +“What?” + +“That you’ve done the work yourself.” + +“Don’t you tell anybody, will you, Mr. Winterborne?” she pleaded, by +way of answer. “Because I am afraid Mr. Melbury may refuse my work if +he knows it is mine.” + +“But how could you learn to do it? ’Tis a trade.” + +“Trade!” said she. “I’d be bound to learn it in two hours.” + +“Oh no, you wouldn’t, Mrs. Marty.” Winterborne held down his lantern, +and examined the cleanly split hazels as they lay. “Marty,” he said, +with dry admiration, “your father with his forty years of practice +never made a spar better than that. They are too good for the thatching +of houses—they are good enough for the furniture. But I won’t tell. Let +me look at your hands—your poor hands!” + +He had a kindly manner of a quietly severe tone; and when she seemed +reluctant to show her hands, he took hold of one and examined it as if +it were his own. Her fingers were blistered. + +“They’ll get harder in time,” she said. “For if father continues ill, I +shall have to go on wi’ it. Now I’ll help put ’em up in wagon.” + +Winterborne without speaking set down his lantern, lifted her as she +was about to stoop over the bundles, placed her behind him, and began +throwing up the bundles himself. “Rather than you should do it I will,” +he said. “But the men will be here directly. Why, Marty!—whatever has +happened to your head? Lord, it has shrunk to nothing—it looks an apple +upon a gate-post!” + +Her heart swelled, and she could not speak. At length she managed to +groan, looking on the ground, “I’ve made myself ugly—and hateful—that’s +what I’ve done!” + +“No, no,” he answered. “You’ve only cut your hair—I see now.” + +“Then why must you needs say that about apples and gate-posts?” + +“Let me see.” + +“No, no!” She ran off into the gloom of the sluggish dawn. He did not +attempt to follow her. When she reached her father’s door she stood on +the step and looked back. Mr. Melbury’s men had arrived, and were +loading up the spars, and their lanterns appeared from the distance at +which she stood to have wan circles round them, like eyes weary with +watching. She observed them for a few seconds as they set about +harnessing the horses, and then went indoors. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +There was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and +presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like +a dead-born child. The villagers everywhere had already bestirred +themselves, rising at this time of the year at the far less dreary hour +of absolute darkness. It had been above an hour earlier, before a +single bird had untucked his head, that twenty lights were struck in as +many bedrooms, twenty pairs of shutters opened, and twenty pairs of +eyes stretched to the sky to forecast the weather for the day. + +Owls that had been catching mice in the out-houses, rabbits that had +been eating the wintergreens in the gardens, and stoats that had been +sucking the blood of the rabbits, discerning that their human neighbors +were on the move, discreetly withdrew from publicity, and were seen and +heard no more that day. + +The daylight revealed the whole of Mr. Melbury’s homestead, of which +the wagon-sheds had been an outlying erection. It formed three sides of +an open quadrangle, and consisted of all sorts of buildings, the +largest and central one being the dwelling itself. The fourth side of +the quadrangle was the public road. + +It was a dwelling-house of respectable, roomy, almost dignified aspect; +which, taken with the fact that there were the remains of other such +buildings thereabout, indicated that Little Hintock had at some time or +other been of greater importance than now, as its old name of Hintock +St. Osmond also testified. The house was of no marked antiquity, yet of +well-advanced age; older than a stale novelty, but no canonized +antique; faded, not hoary; looking at you from the still distinct +middle-distance of the early Georgian time, and awakening on that +account the instincts of reminiscence more decidedly than the remoter +and far grander memorials which have to speak from the misty reaches of +mediaevalism. The faces, dress, passions, gratitudes, and revenues of +the great-great-grandfathers and grandmothers who had been the first to +gaze from those rectangular windows, and had stood under that +key-stoned doorway, could be divined and measured by homely standards +of to-day. It was a house in whose reverberations queer old personal +tales were yet audible if properly listened for; and not, as with those +of the castle and cloister, silent beyond the possibility of echo. + +The garden-front remained much as it had always been, and there was a +porch and entrance that way. But the principal house-door opened on the +square yard or quadrangle towards the road, formerly a regular carriage +entrance, though the middle of the area was now made use of for +stacking timber, fagots, bundles, and other products of the wood. It +was divided from the lane by a lichen-coated wall, in which hung a pair +of gates, flanked by piers out of the perpendicular, with a round white +ball on the top of each. + +The building on the left of the enclosure was a long-backed erection, +now used for spar-making, sawing, crib-framing, and copse-ware +manufacture in general. Opposite were the wagon-sheds where Marty had +deposited her spars. + +Here Winterborne had remained after the girl’s abrupt departure, to see +that the wagon-loads were properly made up. Winterborne was connected +with the Melbury family in various ways. In addition to the sentimental +relationship which arose from his father having been the first Mrs. +Melbury’s lover, Winterborne’s aunt had married and emigrated with the +brother of the timber-merchant many years before—an alliance that was +sufficient to place Winterborne, though the poorer, on a footing of +social intimacy with the Melburys. As in most villages so secluded as +this, intermarriages were of Hapsburgian frequency among the +inhabitants, and there were hardly two houses in Little Hintock +unrelated by some matrimonial tie or other. + +For this reason a curious kind of partnership existed between Melbury +and the younger man—a partnership based upon an unwritten code, by +which each acted in the way he thought fair towards the other, on a +give-and-take principle. Melbury, with his timber and copse-ware +business, found that the weight of his labor came in winter and spring. +Winterborne was in the apple and cider trade, and his requirements in +cartage and other work came in the autumn of each year. Hence horses, +wagons, and in some degree men, were handed over to him when the apples +began to fall; he, in return, lending his assistance to Melbury in the +busiest wood-cutting season, as now. + +Before he had left the shed a boy came from the house to ask him to +remain till Mr. Melbury had seen him. Winterborne thereupon crossed +over to the spar-house where two or three men were already at work, two +of them being travelling spar-makers from White-hart Lane, who, when +this kind of work began, made their appearance regularly, and when it +was over disappeared in silence till the season came again. + +Firewood was the one thing abundant in Little Hintock; and a blaze of +gad-cuds made the outhouse gay with its light, which vied with that of +the day as yet. In the hollow shades of the roof could be seen dangling +etiolated arms of ivy which had crept through the joints of the tiles +and were groping in vain for some support, their leaves being dwarfed +and sickly for want of sunlight; others were pushing in with such force +at the eaves as to lift from their supports the shelves that were fixed +there. + +Besides the itinerant journey-workers there were also present John +Upjohn, engaged in the hollow-turnery trade, who lived hard by; old +Timothy Tangs and young Timothy Tangs, top and bottom sawyers, at work +in Mr. Melbury’s pit outside; Farmer Bawtree, who kept the cider-house, +and Robert Creedle, an old man who worked for Winterborne, and stood +warming his hands; these latter being enticed in by the ruddy blaze, +though they had no particular business there. None of them call for any +remark except, perhaps, Creedle. To have completely described him it +would have been necessary to write a military memoir, for he wore under +his smock-frock a cast-off soldier’s jacket that had seen hot service, +its collar showing just above the flap of the frock; also a hunting +memoir, to include the top-boots that he had picked up by chance; also +chronicles of voyaging and shipwreck, for his pocket-knife had been +given him by a weather-beaten sailor. But Creedle carried about with +him on his uneventful rounds these silent testimonies of war, sport, +and adventure, and thought nothing of their associations or their +stories. + +Copse-work, as it was called, being an occupation which the secondary +intelligence of the hands and arms could carry on without requiring the +sovereign attention of the head, the minds of its professors wandered +considerably from the objects before them; hence the tales, chronicles, +and ramifications of family history which were recounted here were of a +very exhaustive kind, and sometimes so interminable as to defy +description. + +Winterborne, seeing that Melbury had not arrived, stepped back again +outside the door; and the conversation interrupted by his momentary +presence flowed anew, reaching his ears as an accompaniment to the +regular dripping of the fog from the plantation boughs around. + +The topic at present handled was a highly popular and frequent one—the +personal character of Mrs. Charmond, the owner of the surrounding woods +and groves. + +“My brother-in-law told me, and I have no reason to doubt it,” said +Creedle, “that she’d sit down to her dinner with a frock hardly higher +than her elbows. ‘Oh, you wicked woman!’ he said to himself when he +first see her, ‘you go to your church, and sit, and kneel, as if your +knee-jints were greased with very saint’s anointment, and tell off your +Hear-us-good-Lords like a business man counting money; and yet you can +eat your victuals such a figure as that!’ Whether she’s a reformed +character by this time I can’t say; but I don’t care who the man is, +that’s how she went on when my brother-in-law lived there.” + +“Did she do it in her husband’s time?” + +“That I don’t know—hardly, I should think, considering his temper. Ah!” +Here Creedle threw grieved remembrance into physical form by slowly +resigning his head to obliquity and letting his eyes water. “That man! +‘Not if the angels of heaven come down, Creedle,’ he said, ‘shall you +do another day’s work for me!’ Yes—he’d say anything—anything; and +would as soon take a winged creature’s name in vain as yours or mine! +Well, now I must get these spars home-along, and to-morrow, thank God, +I must see about using ’em.” + +An old woman now entered upon the scene. She was Mr. Melbury’s servant, +and passed a great part of her time in crossing the yard between the +house-door and the spar-shed, whither she had come now for fuel. She +had two facial aspects—one, of a soft and flexible kind, she used +indoors when assisting about the parlor or upstairs; the other, with +stiff lines and corners, when she was bustling among the men in the +spar-house or out-of-doors. + +“Ah, Grammer Oliver,” said John Upjohn, “it do do my heart good to see +a old woman like you so dapper and stirring, when I bear in mind that +after fifty one year counts as two did afore! But your smoke didn’t +rise this morning till twenty minutes past seven by my beater; and +that’s late, Grammer Oliver.” + +“If you was a full-sized man, John, people might take notice of your +scornful meanings. But your growing up was such a scrimped and scanty +business that really a woman couldn’t feel hurt if you were to spit +fire and brimstone itself at her. Here,” she added, holding out a +spar-gad to one of the workmen, from which dangled a long +black-pudding—“here’s something for thy breakfast, and if you want tea +you must fetch it from in-doors.” + +“Mr. Melbury is late this morning,” said the bottom-sawyer. + +“Yes. ’Twas a dark dawn,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Even when I opened the +door, so late as I was, you couldn’t have told poor men from gentlemen, +or John from a reasonable-sized object. And I don’t think maister’s +slept at all well to-night. He’s anxious about his daughter; and I know +what that is, for I’ve cried bucketfuls for my own.” + +When the old woman had gone Creedle said, + +“He’ll fret his gizzard green if he don’t soon hear from that maid of +his. Well, learning is better than houses and lands. But to keep a maid +at school till she is taller out of pattens than her mother was in +’em—’tis tempting Providence.” + +“It seems no time ago that she was a little playward girl,” said young +Timothy Tangs. + +“I can mind her mother,” said the hollow-turner. “Always a teuny, +delicate piece; her touch upon your hand was as soft and cool as wind. +She was inoculated for the small-pox and had it beautifully fine, just +about the time that I was out of my apprenticeship—ay, and a long +apprenticeship ’twas. I served that master of mine six years and three +hundred and fourteen days.” + +The hollow-turner pronounced the days with emphasis, as if, considering +their number, they were a rather more remarkable fact than the years. + +“Mr. Winterborne’s father walked with her at one time,” said old +Timothy Tangs. “But Mr. Melbury won her. She was a child of a woman, +and would cry like rain if so be he huffed her. Whenever she and her +husband came to a puddle in their walks together he’d take her up like +a half-penny doll and put her over without dirting her a speck. And if +he keeps the daughter so long at boarding-school, he’ll make her as +nesh as her mother was. But here he comes.” + +Just before this moment Winterborne had seen Melbury crossing the court +from his door. He was carrying an open letter in his hand, and came +straight to Winterborne. His gloom of the preceding night had quite +gone. + +“I’d no sooner made up my mind, Giles, to go and see why Grace didn’t +come or write than I get a letter from her—‘Clifton: Wednesday. My dear +father,’ says she, ‘I’m coming home to-morrow’ (that’s to-day), ‘but I +didn’t think it worth while to write long beforehand.’ The little +rascal, and didn’t she! Now, Giles, as you are going to Sherton market +to-day with your apple-trees, why not join me and Grace there, and +we’ll drive home all together?” + +He made the proposal with cheerful energy; he was hardly the same man +as the man of the small dark hours. Ever it happens that even among the +moodiest the tendency to be cheered is stronger than the tendency to be +cast down; and a soul’s specific gravity stands permanently less than +that of the sea of troubles into which it is thrown. + +Winterborne, though not demonstrative, replied to this suggestion with +something like alacrity. There was not much doubt that Marty’s grounds +for cutting off her hair were substantial enough, if Ambrose’s eyes had +been a reason for keeping it on. As for the timber-merchant, it was +plain that his invitation had been given solely in pursuance of his +scheme for uniting the pair. He had made up his mind to the course as a +duty, and was strenuously bent upon following it out. + +Accompanied by Winterborne, he now turned towards the door of the +spar-house, when his footsteps were heard by the men as aforesaid. + +“Well, John, and Lot,” he said, nodding as he entered. “A rimy +morning.” + +“’Tis, sir!” said Creedle, energetically; for, not having as yet been +able to summon force sufficient to go away and begin work, he felt the +necessity of throwing some into his speech. “I don’t care who the man +is, ’tis the rimiest morning we’ve had this fall.” + +“I heard you wondering why I’ve kept my daughter so long at +boarding-school,” resumed Mr. Melbury, looking up from the letter which +he was reading anew by the fire, and turning to them with the +suddenness that was a trait in him. “Hey?” he asked, with affected +shrewdness. “But you did, you know. Well, now, though it is my own +business more than anybody else’s, I’ll tell ye. When I was a boy, +another boy—the pa’son’s son—along with a lot of others, asked me ‘Who +dragged Whom round the walls of What?’ and I said, ‘Sam Barrett, who +dragged his wife in a chair round the tower corner when she went to be +churched.’ They laughed at me with such torrents of scorn that I went +home ashamed, and couldn’t sleep for shame; and I cried that night till +my pillow was wet: till at last I thought to myself there and +then—‘They may laugh at me for my ignorance, but that was father’s +fault, and none o’ my making, and I must bear it. But they shall never +laugh at my children, if I have any: I’ll starve first!’ Thank God, +I’ve been able to keep her at school without sacrifice; and her +scholarship is such that she stayed on as governess for a time. Let ’em +laugh now if they can: Mrs. Charmond herself is not better informed +than my girl Grace.” + +There was something between high indifference and humble emotion in his +delivery, which made it difficult for them to reply. Winterborne’s +interest was of a kind which did not show itself in words; listening, +he stood by the fire, mechanically stirring the embers with a spar-gad. + +“You’ll be, then, ready, Giles?” Melbury continued, awaking from a +reverie. “Well, what was the latest news at Shottsford yesterday, Mr. +Bawtree?” + +“Well, Shottsford is Shottsford still—you can’t victual your carcass +there unless you’ve got money; and you can’t buy a cup of genuine +there, whether or no....But as the saying is, ‘Go abroad and you’ll +hear news of home.’ It seems that our new neighbor, this young Dr. +What’s-his-name, is a strange, deep, perusing gentleman; and there’s +good reason for supposing he has sold his soul to the wicked one.” + +“’Od name it all,” murmured the timber-merchant, unimpressed by the +news, but reminded of other things by the subject of it; “I’ve got to +meet a gentleman this very morning? and yet I’ve planned to go to +Sherton Abbas for the maid.” + +“I won’t praise the doctor’s wisdom till I hear what sort of bargain +he’s made,” said the top-sawyer. + +“’Tis only an old woman’s tale,” said Bawtree. “But it seems that he +wanted certain books on some mysterious science or black-art, and in +order that the people hereabout should not know anything about his dark +readings, he ordered ’em direct from London, and not from the Sherton +book-seller. The parcel was delivered by mistake at the pa’son’s, and +he wasn’t at home; so his wife opened it, and went into hysterics when +she read ’em, thinking her husband had turned heathen, and ’twould be +the ruin of the children. But when he came he said he knew no more +about ’em than she; and found they were this Mr. Fitzpier’s property. +So he wrote ‘Beware!’ outside, and sent ’em on by the sexton.” + +“He must be a curious young man,” mused the hollow-turner. + +“He must,” said Timothy Tangs. + +“Nonsense,” said Mr. Melbury, authoritatively, “he’s only a gentleman +fond of science and philosophy and poetry, and, in fact, every kind of +knowledge; and being lonely here, he passes his time in making such +matters his hobby.” + +“Well,” said old Timothy, “’tis a strange thing about doctors that the +worse they be the better they be. I mean that if you hear anything of +this sort about ’em, ten to one they can cure ye as nobody else can.” + +“True,” said Bawtree, emphatically. “And for my part I shall take my +custom from old Jones and go to this one directly I’ve anything the +matter with me. That last medicine old Jones gave me had no taste in it +at all.” + +Mr. Melbury, as became a well-informed man, did not listen to these +recitals, being moreover preoccupied with the business appointment +which had come into his head. He walked up and down, looking on the +floor—his usual custom when undecided. That stiffness about the arm, +hip, and knee-joint which was apparent when he walked was the net +product of the divers sprains and over-exertions that had been required +of him in handling trees and timber when a young man, for he was of the +sort called self-made, and had worked hard. He knew the origin of every +one of these cramps: that in his left shoulder had come of carrying a +pollard, unassisted, from Tutcombe Bottom home; that in one leg was +caused by the crash of an elm against it when they were felling; that +in the other was from lifting a bole. On many a morrow after wearying +himself by these prodigious muscular efforts, he had risen from his bed +fresh as usual; his lassitude had departed, apparently forever; and +confident in the recuperative power of his youth, he had repeated the +strains anew. But treacherous Time had been only hiding ill results +when they could be guarded against, for greater accumulation when they +could not. In his declining years the store had been unfolded in the +form of rheumatisms, pricks, and spasms, in every one of which Melbury +recognized some act which, had its consequence been contemporaneously +made known, he would wisely have abstained from repeating. + +On a summons by Grammer Oliver to breakfast, he left the shed. Reaching +the kitchen, where the family breakfasted in winter to save +house-labor, he sat down by the fire, and looked a long time at the +pair of dancing shadows cast by each fire-iron and dog-knob on the +whitewashed chimney-corner—a yellow one from the window, and a blue one +from the fire. + +“I don’t quite know what to do to-day,” he said to his wife at last. +“I’ve recollected that I promised to meet Mrs. Charmond’s steward in +Round Wood at twelve o’clock, and yet I want to go for Grace.” + +“Why not let Giles fetch her by himself? ’Twill bring ’em together all +the quicker.” + +“I could do that—but I should like to go myself. I always have gone, +without fail, every time hitherto. It has been a great pleasure to +drive into Sherton, and wait and see her arrive; and perhaps she’ll be +disappointed if I stay away.” + +“You may be disappointed, but I don’t think she will, if you send +Giles,” said Mrs. Melbury, dryly. + +“Very well—I’ll send him.” + +Melbury was often persuaded by the quietude of his wife’s words when +strenuous argument would have had no effect. This second Mrs. Melbury +was a placid woman, who had been nurse to his child Grace before her +mother’s death. After that melancholy event little Grace had clung to +the nurse with much affection; and ultimately Melbury, in dread lest +the only woman who cared for the girl should be induced to leave her, +persuaded the mild Lucy to marry him. The arrangement—for it was little +more—had worked satisfactorily enough; Grace had thriven, and Melbury +had not repented. + +He returned to the spar-house and found Giles near at hand, to whom he +explained the change of plan. “As she won’t arrive till five o’clock, +you can get your business very well over in time to receive her,” said +Melbury. “The green gig will do for her; you’ll spin along quicker with +that, and won’t be late upon the road. Her boxes can be called for by +one of the wagons.” + +Winterborne, knowing nothing of the timber-merchant’s restitutory aims, +quietly thought all this to be a kindly chance. Wishing even more than +her father to despatch his apple-tree business in the market before +Grace’s arrival, he prepared to start at once. + +Melbury was careful that the turnout should be seemly. The gig-wheels, +for instance, were not always washed during winter-time before a +journey, the muddy roads rendering that labor useless; but they were +washed to-day. The harness was blacked, and when the rather elderly +white horse had been put in, and Winterborne was in his seat ready to +start, Mr. Melbury stepped out with a blacking-brush, and with his own +hands touched over the yellow hoofs of the animal. + +“You see, Giles,” he said, as he blacked, “coming from a fashionable +school, she might feel shocked at the homeliness of home; and ’tis +these little things that catch a dainty woman’s eye if they are +neglected. We, living here alone, don’t notice how the whitey-brown +creeps out of the earth over us; but she, fresh from a city—why, she’ll +notice everything!” + +“That she will,” said Giles. + +“And scorn us if we don’t mind.” + +“Not scorn us.” + +“No, no, no—that’s only words. She’s too good a girl to do that. But +when we consider what she knows, and what she has seen since she last +saw us, ’tis as well to meet her views as nearly as possible. Why, ’tis +a year since she was in this old place, owing to her going abroad in +the summer, which I agreed to, thinking it best for her; and naturally +we shall look small, just at first—I only say just at first.” + +Mr. Melbury’s tone evinced a certain exultation in the very sense of +that inferiority he affected to deplore; for this advanced and refined +being, was she not his own all the time? Not so Giles; he felt +doubtful—perhaps a trifle cynical—for that strand was wound into him +with the rest. He looked at his clothes with misgiving, then with +indifference. + +It was his custom during the planting season to carry a specimen +apple-tree to market with him as an advertisement of what he dealt in. +This had been tied across the gig; and as it would be left behind in +the town, it would cause no inconvenience to Miss Grace Melbury coming +home. + +He drove away, the twigs nodding with each step of the horse; and +Melbury went in-doors. Before the gig had passed out of sight, Mr. +Melbury reappeared and shouted after— + +“Here, Giles,” he said, breathlessly following with some wraps, “it may +be very chilly to-night, and she may want something extra about her. +And, Giles,” he added, when the young man, having taken the articles, +put the horse in motion once more, “tell her that I should have come +myself, but I had particular business with Mrs. Charmond’s agent, which +prevented me. Don’t forget.” + +He watched Winterborne out of sight, saying, with a jerk—a shape into +which emotion with him often resolved itself—“There, now, I hope the +two will bring it to a point and have done with it! ’Tis a pity to let +such a girl throw herself away upon him—a thousand pities!...And yet +’tis my duty for his father’s sake.” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +Winterborne sped on his way to Sherton Abbas without elation and +without discomposure. Had he regarded his inner self spectacularly, as +lovers are now daily more wont to do, he might have felt pride in the +discernment of a somewhat rare power in him—that of keeping not only +judgment but emotion suspended in difficult cases. But he noted it not. +Neither did he observe what was also the fact, that though he cherished +a true and warm feeling towards Grace Melbury, he was not altogether +her fool just now. It must be remembered that he had not seen her for a +year. + +Arrived at the entrance to a long flat lane, which had taken the spirit +out of many a pedestrian in times when, with the majority, to travel +meant to walk, he saw before him the trim figure of a young woman in +pattens, journeying with that steadfast concentration which means +purpose and not pleasure. He was soon near enough to see that she was +Marty South. Click, click, click went the pattens; and she did not turn +her head. + +She had, however, become aware before this that the driver of the +approaching gig was Giles. She had shrunk from being overtaken by him +thus; but as it was inevitable, she had braced herself up for his +inspection by closing her lips so as to make her mouth quite +unemotional, and by throwing an additional firmness into her tread. + +“Why do you wear pattens, Marty? The turnpike is clean enough, although +the lanes are muddy.” + +“They save my boots.” + +“But twelve miles in pattens—’twill twist your feet off. Come, get up +and ride with me.” + +She hesitated, removed her pattens, knocked the gravel out of them +against the wheel, and mounted in front of the nodding specimen +apple-tree. She had so arranged her bonnet with a full border and +trimmings that her lack of long hair did not much injure her +appearance; though Giles, of course, saw that it was gone, and may have +guessed her motive in parting with it, such sales, though infrequent, +being not unheard of in that locality. + +But nature’s adornment was still hard by—in fact, within two feet of +him, though he did not know it. In Marty’s basket was a brown paper +packet, and in the packet the chestnut locks, which, by reason of the +barber’s request for secrecy, she had not ventured to intrust to other +hands. + +Giles asked, with some hesitation, how her father was getting on. + +He was better, she said; he would be able to work in a day or two; he +would be quite well but for his craze about the tree falling on him. + +“You know why I don’t ask for him so often as I might, I suppose?” said +Winterborne. “Or don’t you know?” + +“I think I do.” + +“Because of the houses?” + +She nodded. + +“Yes. I am afraid it may seem that my anxiety is about those houses, +which I should lose by his death, more than about him. Marty, I do feel +anxious about the houses, since half my income depends upon them; but I +do likewise care for him; and it almost seems wrong that houses should +be leased for lives, so as to lead to such mixed feelings.” + +“After father’s death they will be Mrs. Charmond’s?” + +“They’ll be hers.” + +“They are going to keep company with my hair,” she thought. + +Thus talking, they reached the town. By no pressure would she ride up +the street with him. “That’s the right of another woman,” she said, +with playful malice, as she put on her pattens. “I wonder what you are +thinking of! Thank you for the lift in that handsome gig. Good-by.” + +He blushed a little, shook his head at her, and drove on ahead into the +streets—the churches, the abbey, and other buildings on this clear +bright morning having the liny distinctness of architectural drawings, +as if the original dream and vision of the conceiving master-mason, +some mediaeval Vilars or other unknown to fame, were for a few minutes +flashed down through the centuries to an unappreciative age. Giles saw +their eloquent look on this day of transparency, but could not construe +it. He turned into the inn-yard. + +Marty, following the same track, marched promptly to the +hair-dresser’s, Mr. Percombe’s. Percombe was the chief of his trade in +Sherton Abbas. He had the patronage of such county offshoots as had +been obliged to seek the shelter of small houses in that ancient town, +of the local clergy, and so on, for some of whom he had made wigs, +while others among them had compensated for neglecting him in their +lifetime by patronizing him when they were dead, and letting him shave +their corpses. On the strength of all this he had taken down his pole, +and called himself “Perruquier to the aristocracy.” + +Nevertheless, this sort of support did not quite fill his children’s +mouths, and they had to be filled. So, behind his house there was a +little yard, reached by a passage from the back street, and in that +yard was a pole, and under the pole a shop of quite another description +than the ornamental one in the front street. Here on Saturday nights +from seven till ten he took an almost innumerable succession of +twopences from the farm laborers who flocked thither in crowds from the +country. And thus he lived. + +Marty, of course, went to the front shop, and handed her packet to him +silently. “Thank you,” said the barber, quite joyfully. “I hardly +expected it after what you said last night.” + +She turned aside, while a tear welled up and stood in each eye at this +reminder. + +“Nothing of what I told you,” he whispered, there being others in the +shop. “But I can trust you, I see.” + +She had now reached the end of this distressing business, and went +listlessly along the street to attend to other errands. These occupied +her till four o’clock, at which time she recrossed the market-place. It +was impossible to avoid rediscovering Winterborne every time she passed +that way, for standing, as he always did at this season of the year, +with his specimen apple-tree in the midst, the boughs rose above the +heads of the crowd, and brought a delightful suggestion of orchards +among the crowded buildings there. When her eye fell upon him for the +last time he was standing somewhat apart, holding the tree like an +ensign, and looking on the ground instead of pushing his produce as he +ought to have been doing. He was, in fact, not a very successful seller +either of his trees or of his cider, his habit of speaking his mind, +when he spoke at all, militating against this branch of his business. + +While she regarded him he suddenly lifted his eyes in a direction away +from Marty, his face simultaneously kindling with recognition and +surprise. She followed his gaze, and saw walking across to him a +flexible young creature in whom she perceived the features of her she +had known as Miss Grace Melbury, but now looking glorified and refined +above her former level. Winterborne, being fixed to the spot by his +apple-tree, could not advance to meet her; he held out his spare hand +with his hat in it, and with some embarrassment beheld her coming on +tiptoe through the mud to the middle of the square where he stood. + +Miss Melbury’s arrival so early was, as Marty could see, unexpected by +Giles, which accounted for his not being ready to receive her. Indeed, +her father had named five o’clock as her probable time, for which +reason that hour had been looming out all the day in his forward +perspective, like an important edifice on a plain. Now here she was +come, he knew not how, and his arranged welcome stultified. + +His face became gloomy at her necessity for stepping into the road, and +more still at the little look of embarrassment which appeared on hers +at having to perform the meeting with him under an apple-tree ten feet +high in the middle of the market-place. Having had occasion to take off +the new gloves she had bought to come home in, she held out to him a +hand graduating from pink at the tips of the fingers to white at the +palm; and the reception formed a scene, with the tree over their heads, +which was not by any means an ordinary one in Sherton Abbas streets. + +Nevertheless, the greeting on her looks and lips was of a restrained +type, which perhaps was not unnatural. For true it was that Giles +Winterborne, well-attired and well-mannered as he was for a yeoman, +looked rough beside her. It had sometimes dimly occurred to him, in his +ruminating silence at Little Hintock, that external phenomena—such as +the lowness or height or color of a hat, the fold of a coat, the make +of a boot, or the chance attitude or occupation of a limb at the +instant of view—may have a great influence upon feminine opinion of a +man’s worth—so frequently founded on non-essentials; but a certain +causticity of mental tone towards himself and the world in general had +prevented to-day, as always, any enthusiastic action on the strength of +that reflection; and her momentary instinct of reserve at first sight +of him was the penalty he paid for his laxness. + +He gave away the tree to a by-stander, as soon as he could find one who +would accept the cumbersome gift, and the twain moved on towards the +inn at which he had put up. Marty made as if to step forward for the +pleasure of being recognized by Miss Melbury; but abruptly checking +herself, she glided behind a carrier’s van, saying, dryly, “No; I baint +wanted there,” and critically regarded Winterborne’s companion. + +It would have been very difficult to describe Grace Melbury with +precision, either now or at any time. Nay, from the highest point of +view, to precisely describe a human being, the focus of a universe—how +impossible! But, apart from transcendentalism, there never probably +lived a person who was in herself more completely a _reductio ad +absurdum_ of attempts to appraise a woman, even externally, by items of +face and figure. Speaking generally, it may be said that she was +sometimes beautiful, at other times not beautiful, according to the +state of her health and spirits. + +In simple corporeal presentment she was of a fair and clear complexion, +rather pale than pink, slim in build and elastic in movement. Her look +expressed a tendency to wait for others’ thoughts before uttering her +own; possibly also to wait for others’ deeds before her own doing. In +her small, delicate mouth, which had perhaps hardly settled down to its +matured curves, there was a gentleness that might hinder sufficient +self-assertion for her own good. She had well-formed eyebrows which, +had her portrait been painted, would probably have been done in Prout’s +or Vandyke brown. + +There was nothing remarkable in her dress just now, beyond a natural +fitness and a style that was recent for the streets of Sherton. But, +indeed, had it been the reverse, and quite striking, it would have +meant just as little. For there can be hardly anything less connected +with a woman’s personality than drapery which she has neither designed, +manufactured, cut, sewed, or even seen, except by a glance of approval +when told that such and such a shape and color must be had because it +has been decided by others as imperative at that particular time. + +What people, therefore, saw of her in a cursory view was very little; +in truth, mainly something that was not she. The woman herself was a +shadowy, conjectural creature who had little to do with the outlines +presented to Sherton eyes; a shape in the gloom, whose true description +could only be approximated by putting together a movement now and a +glance then, in that patient and long-continued attentiveness which +nothing but watchful loving-kindness ever troubles to give. + +There was a little delay in their setting out from the town, and Marty +South took advantage of it to hasten forward, with the view of escaping +them on the way, lest they should feel compelled to spoil their +_tête-à-tête_ by asking her to ride. She walked fast, and one-third of +the journey was done, and the evening rapidly darkening, before she +perceived any sign of them behind her. Then, while ascending a hill, +she dimly saw their vehicle drawing near the lowest part of the +incline, their heads slightly bent towards each other; drawn together, +no doubt, by their souls, as the heads of a pair of horses well in hand +are drawn in by the rein. She walked still faster. + +But between these and herself there was a carriage, apparently a +brougham, coming in the same direction, with lighted lamps. When it +overtook her—which was not soon, on account of her pace—the scene was +much darker, and the lights glared in her eyes sufficiently to hide the +details of the equipage. + +It occurred to Marty that she might take hold behind this carriage and +so keep along with it, to save herself the mortification of being +overtaken and picked up for pity’s sake by the coming pair. +Accordingly, as the carriage drew abreast of her in climbing the long +ascent, she walked close to the wheels, the rays of the nearest lamp +penetrating her very pores. She had only just dropped behind when the +carriage stopped, and to her surprise the coachman asked her, over his +shoulder, if she would ride. What made the question more surprising was +that it came in obedience to an order from the interior of the vehicle. + +Marty gladly assented, for she was weary, very weary, after working all +night and keeping afoot all day. She mounted beside the coachman, +wondering why this good-fortune had happened to her. He was rather a +great man in aspect, and she did not like to inquire of him for some +time. + +At last she said, “Who has been so kind as to ask me to ride?” + +“Mrs. Charmond,” replied her statuesque companion. + +Marty was stirred at the name, so closely connected with her last +night’s experiences. “Is this her carriage?” she whispered. + +“Yes; she’s inside.” + +Marty reflected, and perceived that Mrs. Charmond must have recognized +her plodding up the hill under the blaze of the lamp; recognized, +probably, her stubbly poll (since she had kept away her face), and +thought that those stubbles were the result of her own desire. + +Marty South was not so very far wrong. Inside the carriage a pair of +bright eyes looked from a ripely handsome face, and though behind those +bright eyes was a mind of unfathomed mysteries, beneath them there beat +a heart capable of quick extempore warmth—a heart which could, indeed, +be passionately and imprudently warm on certain occasions. At present, +after recognizing the girl, she had acted on a mere impulse, possibly +feeling gratified at the denuded appearance which signified the success +of her agent in obtaining what she had required. + +“’Tis wonderful that she should ask ye,” observed the magisterial +coachman, presently. “I have never known her do it before, for as a +rule she takes no interest in the village folk at all.” + +Marty said no more, but occasionally turned her head to see if she +could get a glimpse of the Olympian creature who as the coachman had +truly observed, hardly ever descended from her clouds into the Tempe of +the parishioners. But she could discern nothing of the lady. She also +looked for Miss Melbury and Winterborne. The nose of their horse +sometimes came quite near the back of Mrs. Charmond’s carriage. But +they never attempted to pass it till the latter conveyance turned +towards the park gate, when they sped by. Here the carriage drew up +that the gate might be opened, and in the momentary silence Marty heard +a gentle oral sound, soft as a breeze. + +“What’s that?” she whispered. + +“Mis’ess yawning.” + +“Why should she yawn?” + +“Oh, because she’s been used to such wonderfully good life, and finds +it dull here. She’ll soon be off again on account of it.” + +“So rich and so powerful, and yet to yawn!” the girl murmured. “Then +things don’t fay with she any more than with we!” + +Marty now alighted; the lamp again shone upon her, and as the carriage +rolled on, a soft voice said to her from the interior, “Good-night.” + +“Good-night, ma’am,” said Marty. But she had not been able to see the +woman who began so greatly to interest her—the second person of her own +sex who had operated strongly on her mind that day. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +Meanwhile, Winterborne and Grace Melbury had also undergone their +little experiences of the same homeward journey. + +As he drove off with her out of the town the glances of people fell +upon them, the younger thinking that Mr. Winterborne was in a pleasant +place, and wondering in what relation he stood towards her. Winterborne +himself was unconscious of this. Occupied solely with the idea of +having her in charge, he did not notice much with outward eye, neither +observing how she was dressed, nor the effect of the picture they +together composed in the landscape. + +Their conversation was in briefest phrase for some time, Grace being +somewhat disconcerted, through not having understood till they were +about to start that Giles was to be her sole conductor in place of her +father. When they were in the open country he spoke. + +“Don’t Brownley’s farm-buildings look strange to you, now they have +been moved bodily from the hollow where the old ones stood to the top +of the hill?” + +She admitted that they did, though she should not have seen any +difference in them if he had not pointed it out. + +“They had a good crop of bitter-sweets; they couldn’t grind them all” +(nodding towards an orchard where some heaps of apples had been left +lying ever since the ingathering). + +She said “Yes,” but looking at another orchard. + +“Why, you are looking at John-apple-trees! You know bitter-sweets—you +used to well enough!” + +“I am afraid I have forgotten, and it is getting too dark to +distinguish.” + +Winterborne did not continue. It seemed as if the knowledge and +interest which had formerly moved Grace’s mind had quite died away from +her. He wondered whether the special attributes of his image in the +past had evaporated like these other things. + +However that might be, the fact at present was merely this, that where +he was seeing John-apples and farm-buildings she was beholding a far +remoter scene—a scene no less innocent and simple, indeed, but much +contrasting—a broad lawn in the fashionable suburb of a fast city, the +evergreen leaves shining in the evening sun, amid which bounding girls, +gracefully clad in artistic arrangements of blue, brown, red, black, +and white, were playing at games, with laughter and chat, in all the +pride of life, the notes of piano and harp trembling in the air from +the open windows adjoining. Moreover, they were girls—and this was a +fact which Grace Melbury’s delicate femininity could not lose sight +of—whose parents Giles would have addressed with a deferential Sir or +Madam. Beside this visioned scene the homely farmsteads did not quite +hold their own from her present twenty-year point of survey. For all +his woodland sequestration, Giles knew the primitive simplicity of the +subject he had started, and now sounded a deeper note. + +“’Twas very odd what we said to each other years ago; I often think of +it. I mean our saying that if we still liked each other when you were +twenty and I twenty-five, we’d—” + +“It was child’s tattle.” + +“H’m!” said Giles, suddenly. + +“I mean we were young,” said she, more considerately. That gruff manner +of his in making inquiries reminded her that he was unaltered in much. + +“Yes....I beg your pardon, Miss Melbury; your father _sent_ me to meet +you to-day.” + +“I know it, and I am glad of it.” + +He seemed satisfied with her tone and went on: “At that time you were +sitting beside me at the back of your father’s covered car, when we +were coming home from gypsying, all the party being squeezed in +together as tight as sheep in an auction-pen. It got darker and darker, +and I said—I forget the exact words—but I put my arm round your waist +and there you let it stay till your father, sitting in front suddenly +stopped telling his story to Farmer Bollen, to light his pipe. The +flash shone into the car, and showed us all up distinctly; my arm flew +from your waist like lightning; yet not so quickly but that some of ’em +had seen, and laughed at us. Yet your father, to our amazement, instead +of being angry, was mild as milk, and seemed quite pleased. Have you +forgot all that, or haven’t you?” + +She owned that she remembered it very well, now that he mentioned the +circumstances. “But, goodness! I must have been in short frocks,” she +said. + +“Come now, Miss Melbury, that won’t do! Short frocks, indeed! You know +better, as well as I.” + +Grace thereupon declared that she would not argue with an old friend +she valued so highly as she valued him, saying the words with the easy +elusiveness that will be polite at all costs. It might possibly be +true, she added, that she was getting on in girlhood when that event +took place; but if it were so, then she was virtually no less than an +old woman now, so far did the time seem removed from her present. “Do +you ever look at things philosophically instead of personally?” she +asked. + +“I can’t say that I do,” answered Giles, his eyes lingering far ahead +upon a dark spot, which proved to be a brougham. + +“I think you may, sometimes, with advantage,” said she. “Look at +yourself as a pitcher drifting on the stream with other pitchers, and +consider what contrivances are most desirable for avoiding cracks in +general, and not only for saving your poor one. Shall I tell you all +about Bath or Cheltenham, or places on the Continent that I visited +last summer?” + +“With all my heart.” + +She then described places and persons in such terms as might have been +used for that purpose by any woman to any man within the four seas, so +entirely absent from that description was everything specially +appertaining to her own existence. When she had done she said, gayly, +“Now do you tell me in return what has happened in Hintock since I have +been away.” + +“Anything to keep the conversation away from her and me,” said Giles +within him. + +It was true cultivation had so far advanced in the soil of Miss +Melbury’s mind as to lead her to talk by rote of anything save of that +she knew well, and had the greatest interest in developing—that is to +say, herself. + +He had not proceeded far with his somewhat bald narration when they +drew near the carriage that had been preceding them for some time. Miss +Melbury inquired if he knew whose carriage it was. + +Winterborne, although he had seen it, had not taken it into account. On +examination, he said it was Mrs. Charmond’s. + +Grace watched the vehicle and its easy roll, and seemed to feel more +nearly akin to it than to the one she was in. + +“Pooh! We can polish off the mileage as well as they, come to that,” +said Winterborne, reading her mind; and rising to emulation at what it +bespoke, he whipped on the horse. This it was which had brought the +nose of Mr. Melbury’s old gray close to the back of Mrs. Charmond’s +much-eclipsing vehicle. + +“There’s Marty South sitting up with the coachman,” said he, discerning +her by her dress. + +“Ah, poor Marty! I must ask her to come to see me this very evening. +How does she happen to be riding there?” + +“I don’t know. It is very singular.” + +Thus these people with converging destinies went along the road +together, till Winterborne, leaving the track of the carriage, turned +into Little Hintock, where almost the first house was the +timber-merchant’s. Pencils of dancing light streamed out of the windows +sufficiently to show the white laurestinus flowers, and glance over the +polished leaves of laurel. The interior of the rooms could be seen +distinctly, warmed up by the fire-flames, which in the parlor were +reflected from the glass of the pictures and bookcase, and in the +kitchen from the utensils and ware. + +“Let us look at the dear place for a moment before we call them,” she +said. + +In the kitchen dinner was preparing; for though Melbury dined at one +o’clock at other times, to-day the meal had been kept back for Grace. A +rickety old spit was in motion, its end being fixed in the fire-dog, +and the whole kept going by means of a cord conveyed over pulleys along +the ceiling to a large stone suspended in a corner of the room. Old +Grammer Oliver came and wound it up with a rattle like that of a mill. + +In the parlor a large shade of Mrs. Melbury’s head fell on the wall and +ceiling; but before the girl had regarded this room many moments their +presence was discovered, and her father and stepmother came out to +welcome her. + +The character of the Melbury family was of that kind which evinces some +shyness in showing strong emotion among each other: a trait frequent in +rural households, and one which stands in curiously inverse relation to +most of the peculiarities distinguishing villagers from the people of +towns. Thus hiding their warmer feelings under commonplace talk all +round, Grace’s reception produced no extraordinary demonstrations. But +that more was felt than was enacted appeared from the fact that her +father, in taking her in-doors, quite forgot the presence of Giles +without, as did also Grace herself. He said nothing, but took the gig +round to the yard and called out from the spar-house the man who +particularly attended to these matters when there was no conversation +to draw him off among the copse-workers inside. Winterborne then +returned to the door with the intention of entering the house. + +The family had gone into the parlor, and were still absorbed in +themselves. The fire was, as before, the only light, and it irradiated +Grace’s face and hands so as to make them look wondrously smooth and +fair beside those of the two elders; shining also through the loose +hair about her temples as sunlight through a brake. Her father was +surveying her in a dazed conjecture, so much had she developed and +progressed in manner and stature since he last had set eyes on her. + +Observing these things, Winterborne remained dubious by the door, +mechanically tracing with his fingers certain time-worn letters carved +in the jambs—initials of by-gone generations of householders who had +lived and died there. + +No, he declared to himself, he would not enter and join the family; +they had forgotten him, and it was enough for to-day that he had +brought her home. Still, he was a little surprised that her father’s +eagerness to send him for Grace should have resulted in such an +anticlimax as this. + +He walked softly away into the lane towards his own house, looking back +when he reached the turning, from which he could get a last glimpse of +the timber-merchant’s roof. He hazarded guesses as to what Grace was +saying just at that moment, and murmured, with some self-derision, +“nothing about me!” He looked also in the other direction, and saw +against the sky the thatched hip and solitary chimney of Marty’s +cottage, and thought of her too, struggling bravely along under that +humble shelter, among her spar-gads and pots and skimmers. + +At the timber-merchant’s, in the mean time, the conversation flowed; +and, as Giles Winterborne had rightly enough deemed, on subjects in +which he had no share. Among the excluding matters there was, for one, +the effect upon Mr. Melbury of the womanly mien and manners of his +daughter, which took him so much unawares that, though it did not make +him absolutely forget the existence of her conductor homeward, thrust +Giles’s image back into quite the obscurest cellarage of his brain. +Another was his interview with Mrs. Charmond’s agent that morning, at +which the lady herself had been present for a few minutes. Melbury had +purchased some standing timber from her a long time before, and now +that the date had come for felling it he was left to pursue almost his +own course. This was what the household were actually talking of during +Giles’s cogitation without; and Melbury’s satisfaction with the clear +atmosphere that had arisen between himself and the deity of the groves +which enclosed his residence was the cause of a counterbalancing +mistiness on the side towards Winterborne. + +“So thoroughly does she trust me,” said Melbury, “that I might fell, +top, or lop, on my own judgment, any stick o’ timber whatever in her +wood, and fix the price o’t, and settle the matter. But, name it all! I +wouldn’t do such a thing. However, it may be useful to have this good +understanding with her....I wish she took more interest in the place, +and stayed here all the year round.” + +“I am afraid ’tis not her regard for you, but her dislike of Hintock, +that makes her so easy about the trees,” said Mrs. Melbury. + +When dinner was over, Grace took a candle and began to ramble +pleasurably through the rooms of her old home, from which she had +latterly become wellnigh an alien. Each nook and each object revived a +memory, and simultaneously modified it. The chambers seemed lower than +they had appeared on any previous occasion of her return, the surfaces +of both walls and ceilings standing in such relations to the eye that +it could not avoid taking microscopic note of their irregularities and +old fashion. Her own bedroom wore at once a look more familiar than +when she had left it, and yet a face estranged. The world of little +things therein gazed at her in helpless stationariness, as though they +had tried and been unable to make any progress without her presence. +Over the place where her candle had been accustomed to stand, when she +had used to read in bed till the midnight hour, there was still the +brown spot of smoke. She did not know that her father had taken +especial care to keep it from being cleaned off. + +Having concluded her perambulation of this now uselessly commodious +edifice, Grace began to feel that she had come a long journey since the +morning; and when her father had been up himself, as well as his wife, +to see that her room was comfortable and the fire burning, she prepared +to retire for the night. No sooner, however, was she in bed than her +momentary sleepiness took itself off, and she wished she had stayed up +longer. She amused herself by listening to the old familiar noises that +she could hear to be still going on down-stairs, and by looking towards +the window as she lay. The blind had been drawn up, as she used to have +it when a girl, and she could just discern the dim tree-tops against +the sky on the neighboring hill. Beneath this meeting-line of light and +shade nothing was visible save one solitary point of light, which +blinked as the tree-twigs waved to and fro before its beams. From its +position it seemed to radiate from the window of a house on the +hill-side. The house had been empty when she was last at home, and she +wondered who inhabited the place now. + +Her conjectures, however, were not intently carried on, and she was +watching the light quite idly, when it gradually changed color, and at +length shone blue as sapphire. Thus it remained several minutes, and +then it passed through violet to red. + +Her curiosity was so widely awakened by the phenomenon that she sat up +in bed, and stared steadily at the shine. An appearance of this sort, +sufficient to excite attention anywhere, was no less than a marvel in +Hintock, as Grace had known the hamlet. Almost every diurnal and +nocturnal effect in that woodland place had hitherto been the direct +result of the regular terrestrial roll which produced the season’s +changes; but here was something dissociated from these normal +sequences, and foreign to local habit and knowledge. + +It was about this moment that Grace heard the household below preparing +to retire, the most emphatic noise in the proceeding being that of her +father bolting the doors. Then the stairs creaked, and her father and +mother passed her chamber. The last to come was Grammer Oliver. + +Grace slid out of bed, ran across the room, and lifting the latch, +said, “I am not asleep, Grammer. Come in and talk to me.” + +Before the old woman had entered, Grace was again under the bedclothes. +Grammer set down her candlestick, and seated herself on the edge of +Miss Melbury’s coverlet. + +“I want you to tell me what light that is I see on the hill-side,” said +Grace. + +Mrs. Oliver looked across. “Oh, that,” she said, “is from the doctor’s. +He’s often doing things of that sort. Perhaps you don’t know that we’ve +a doctor living here now—Mr. Fitzpiers by name?” + +Grace admitted that she had not heard of him. + +“Well, then, miss, he’s come here to get up a practice. I know him very +well, through going there to help ’em scrub sometimes, which your +father said I might do, if I wanted to, in my spare time. Being a +bachelor-man, he’ve only a lad in the house. Oh yes, I know him very +well. Sometimes he’ll talk to me as if I were his own mother.” + +“Indeed.” + +“Yes. ‘Grammer,’ he said one day, when I asked him why he came here +where there’s hardly anybody living, ‘I’ll tell you why I came here. I +took a map, and I marked on it where Dr. Jones’s practice ends to the +north of this district, and where Mr. Taylor’s ends on the south, and +little Jimmy Green’s on the east, and somebody else’s to the west. Then +I took a pair of compasses, and found the exact middle of the country +that was left between these bounds, and that middle was Little Hintock; +so here I am....’ But, Lord, there: poor young man!” + +“Why?” + +“He said, ‘Grammer Oliver, I’ve been here three months, and although +there are a good many people in the Hintocks and the villages round, +and a scattered practice is often a very good one, I don’t seem to get +many patients. And there’s no society at all; and I’m pretty near +melancholy mad,’ he said, with a great yawn. ‘I should be quite if it +were not for my books, and my lab—laboratory, and what not. Grammer, I +was made for higher things.’ And then he’d yawn and yawn again.” + +“Was he really made for higher things, do you think? I mean, is he +clever?” + +“Well, no. How can he be clever? He may be able to jine up a broken man +or woman after a fashion, and put his finger upon an ache if you tell +him nearly where ’tis; but these young men—they should live to my time +of life, and then they’d see how clever they were at five-and-twenty! +And yet he’s a projick, a real projick, and says the oddest of rozums. +‘Ah, Grammer,’ he said, at another time, ‘let me tell you that +Everything is Nothing. There’s only Me and not Me in the whole world.’ +And he told me that no man’s hands could help what they did, any more +than the hands of a clock....Yes, he’s a man of strange meditations, +and his eyes seem to see as far as the north star.” + +“He will soon go away, no doubt.” + +“I don’t think so.” Grace did not say “Why?” and Grammer hesitated. At +last she went on: “Don’t tell your father or mother, miss, if I let you +know a secret.” + +Grace gave the required promise. + +“Well, he talks of buying me; so he won’t go away just yet.” + +“Buying you!—how?” + +“Not my soul—my body, when I’m dead. One day when I was there cleaning, +he said, ‘Grammer, you’ve a large brain—a very large organ of brain,’ +he said. ‘A woman’s is usually four ounces less than a man’s; but yours +is man’s size.’ Well, then—hee, hee!—after he’d flattered me a bit like +that, he said he’d give me ten pounds to have me as a natomy after my +death. Well, knowing I’d no chick nor chiel left, and nobody with any +interest in me, I thought, faith, if I can be of any use to my +fellow-creatures after I’m gone they are welcome to my services; so I +said I’d think it over, and would most likely agree and take the ten +pounds. Now this is a secret, miss, between us two. The money would be +very useful to me; and I see no harm in it.” + +“Of course there’s no harm. But oh, Grammer, how can you think to do +it? I wish you hadn’t told me.” + +“I wish I hadn’t—if you don’t like to know it, miss. But you needn’t +mind. Lord—hee, hee!—I shall keep him waiting many a year yet, bless +ye!” + +“I hope you will, I am sure.” + +The girl thereupon fell into such deep reflection that conversation +languished, and Grammer Oliver, taking her candle, wished Miss Melbury +good-night. The latter’s eyes rested on the distant glimmer, around +which she allowed her reasoning fancy to play in vague eddies that +shaped the doings of the philosopher behind that light on the lines of +intelligence just received. It was strange to her to come back from the +world to Little Hintock and find in one of its nooks, like a tropical +plant in a hedgerow, a nucleus of advanced ideas and practices which +had nothing in common with the life around. Chemical experiments, +anatomical projects, and metaphysical conceptions had found a strange +home here. + +Thus she remained thinking, the imagined pursuits of the man behind the +light intermingling with conjectural sketches of his personality, till +her eyes fell together with their own heaviness, and she slept. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +Kaleidoscopic dreams of a weird alchemist-surgeon, Grammer Oliver’s +skeleton, and the face of Giles Winterborne, brought Grace Melbury to +the morning of the next day. It was fine. A north wind was blowing—that +not unacceptable compromise between the atmospheric cutlery of the +eastern blast and the spongy gales of the west quarter. She looked from +her window in the direction of the light of the previous evening, and +could just discern through the trees the shape of the surgeon’s house. +Somehow, in the broad, practical daylight, that unknown and lonely +gentleman seemed to be shorn of much of the interest which had invested +his personality and pursuits in the hours of darkness, and as Grace’s +dressing proceeded he faded from her mind. + +Meanwhile, Winterborne, though half assured of her father’s favor, was +rendered a little restless by Miss Melbury’s behavior. Despite his dry +self-control, he could not help looking continually from his own door +towards the timber-merchant’s, in the probability of somebody’s +emergence therefrom. His attention was at length justified by the +appearance of two figures, that of Mr. Melbury himself, and Grace +beside him. They stepped out in a direction towards the densest quarter +of the wood, and Winterborne walked contemplatively behind them, till +all three were soon under the trees. + +Although the time of bare boughs had now set in, there were sheltered +hollows amid the Hintock plantations and copses in which a more tardy +leave-taking than on windy summits was the rule with the foliage. This +caused here and there an apparent mixture of the seasons; so that in +some of the dells that they passed by holly-berries in full red were +found growing beside oak and hazel whose leaves were as yet not far +removed from green, and brambles whose verdure was rich and deep as in +the month of August. To Grace these well-known peculiarities were as an +old painting restored. + +Now could be beheld that change from the handsome to the curious which +the features of a wood undergo at the ingress of the winter months. +Angles were taking the place of curves, and reticulations of surfaces—a +change constituting a sudden lapse from the ornate to the primitive on +Nature’s canvas, and comparable to a retrogressive step from the art of +an advanced school of painting to that of the Pacific Islander. + +Winterborne followed, and kept his eye upon the two figures as they +threaded their way through these sylvan phenomena. Mr. Melbury’s long +legs, and gaiters drawn in to the bone at the ankles, his slight stoop, +his habit of getting lost in thought and arousing himself with an +exclamation of “Hah!” accompanied with an upward jerk of the head, +composed a personage recognizable by his neighbors as far as he could +be seen. It seemed as if the squirrels and birds knew him. One of the +former would occasionally run from the path to hide behind the arm of +some tree, which the little animal carefully edged round _pari passu_ +with Melbury and his daughters movement onward, assuming a mock manner, +as though he were saying, “Ho, ho; you are only a timber-merchant, and +carry no gun!” + +They went noiselessly over mats of starry moss, rustled through +interspersed tracts of leaves, skirted trunks with spreading roots, +whose mossed rinds made them like hands wearing green gloves; elbowed +old elms and ashes with great forks, in which stood pools of water that +overflowed on rainy days, and ran down their stems in green cascades. +On older trees still than these, huge lobes of fungi grew like lungs. +Here, as everywhere, the Unfulfilled Intention, which makes life what +it is, was as obvious as it could be among the depraved crowds of a +city slum. The leaf was deformed, the curve was crippled, the taper was +interrupted; the lichen eat the vigor of the stalk, and the ivy slowly +strangled to death the promising sapling. + +They dived amid beeches under which nothing grew, the younger boughs +still retaining their hectic leaves, that rustled in the breeze with a +sound almost metallic, like the sheet-iron foliage of the fabled +Jarnvid wood. Some flecks of white in Grace’s drapery had enabled Giles +to keep her and her father in view till this time; but now he lost +sight of them, and was obliged to follow by ear—no difficult matter, +for on the line of their course every wood-pigeon rose from its perch +with a continued clash, dashing its wings against the branches with +wellnigh force enough to break every quill. By taking the track of this +noise he soon came to a stile. + +Was it worth while to go farther? He examined the doughy soil at the +foot of the stile, and saw among the large sole-and-heel tracks an +impression of a slighter kind from a boot that was obviously not local, +for Winterborne knew all the cobblers’ patterns in that district, +because they were very few to know. The mud-picture was enough to make +him swing himself over and proceed. + +The character of the woodland now changed. The bases of the smaller +trees were nibbled bare by rabbits, and at divers points heaps of +fresh-made chips, and the newly-cut stool of a tree, stared white +through the undergrowth. There had been a large fall of timber this +year, which explained the meaning of some sounds that soon reached him. + +A voice was shouting intermittently in a sort of human bark, which +reminded Giles that there was a sale of trees and fagots that very day. +Melbury would naturally be present. Thereupon Winterborne remembered +that he himself wanted a few fagots, and entered upon the scene. + +A large group of buyers stood round the auctioneer, or followed him +when, between his pauses, he wandered on from one lot of plantation +produce to another, like some philosopher of the Peripatetic school +delivering his lectures in the shady groves of the Lyceum. His +companions were timber-dealers, yeomen, farmers, villagers, and others; +mostly woodland men, who on that account could afford to be curious in +their walking-sticks, which consequently exhibited various +monstrosities of vegetation, the chief being cork-screw shapes in black +and white thorn, brought to that pattern by the slow torture of an +encircling woodbine during their growth, as the Chinese have been said +to mould human beings into grotesque toys by continued compression in +infancy. Two women, wearing men’s jackets on their gowns, conducted in +the rear of the halting procession a pony-cart containing a tapped +barrel of beer, from which they drew and replenished horns that were +handed round, with bread-and-cheese from a basket. + +The auctioneer adjusted himself to circumstances by using his +walking-stick as a hammer, and knocked down the lot on any convenient +object that took his fancy, such as the crown of a little boy’s head, +or the shoulders of a by-stander who had no business there except to +taste the brew; a proceeding which would have been deemed humorous but +for the air of stern rigidity which that auctioneer’s face preserved, +tending to show that the eccentricity was a result of that absence of +mind which is engendered by the press of affairs, and no freak of fancy +at all. + +Mr. Melbury stood slightly apart from the rest of the Peripatetics, and +Grace beside him, clinging closely to his arm, her modern attire +looking almost odd where everything else was old-fashioned, and +throwing over the familiar garniture of the trees a homeliness that +seemed to demand improvement by the addition of a few contemporary +novelties also. Grace seemed to regard the selling with the interest +which attaches to memories revived after an interval of obliviousness. + +Winterborne went and stood close to them; the timber-merchant spoke, +and continued his buying; Grace merely smiled. To justify his presence +there Winterborne began bidding for timber and fagots that he did not +want, pursuing the occupation in an abstracted mood, in which the +auctioneer’s voice seemed to become one of the natural sounds of the +woodland. A few flakes of snow descended, at the sight of which a +robin, alarmed at these signs of imminent winter, and seeing that no +offence was meant by the human invasion, came and perched on the tip of +the fagots that were being sold, and looked into the auctioneer’s face, +while waiting for some chance crumb from the bread-basket. Standing a +little behind Grace, Winterborne observed how one flake would sail +downward and settle on a curl of her hair, and how another would choose +her shoulder, and another the edge of her bonnet, which took up so much +of his attention that his biddings proceeded incoherently; and when the +auctioneer said, every now and then, with a nod towards him, “Yours, +Mr. Winterborne,” he had no idea whether he had bought fagots, poles, +or logwood. + +He regretted, with some causticity of humor, that her father should +show such inequalities of temperament as to keep Grace tightly on his +arm to-day, when he had quite lately seemed anxious to recognize their +betrothal as a fact. And thus musing, and joining in no conversation +with other buyers except when directly addressed, he followed the +assemblage hither and thither till the end of the auction, when Giles +for the first time realized what his purchases had been. Hundreds of +fagots, and divers lots of timber, had been set down to him, when all +he had required had been a few bundles of spray for his odd man Robert +Creedle’s use in baking and lighting fires. + +Business being over, he turned to speak to the timber merchant. But +Melbury’s manner was short and distant; and Grace, too, looked vexed +and reproachful. Winterborne then discovered that he had been +unwittingly bidding against her father, and picking up his favorite +lots in spite of him. With a very few words they left the spot and +pursued their way homeward. + +Giles was extremely sorry at what he had done, and remained standing +under the trees, all the other men having strayed silently away. He saw +Melbury and his daughter pass down a glade without looking back. While +they moved slowly through it a lady appeared on horseback in the middle +distance, the line of her progress converging upon that of Melbury’s. +They met, Melbury took off his hat, and she reined in her horse. A +conversation was evidently in progress between Grace and her father and +this equestrian, in whom he was almost sure that he recognized Mrs. +Charmond, less by her outline than by the livery of the groom who had +halted some yards off. + +The interlocutors did not part till after a prolonged pause, during +which much seemed to be said. When Melbury and Grace resumed their walk +it was with something of a lighter tread than before. + +Winterborne then pursued his own course homeward. He was unwilling to +let coldness grow up between himself and the Melburys for any trivial +reason, and in the evening he went to their house. On drawing near the +gate his attention was attracted by the sight of one of the bedrooms +blinking into a state of illumination. In it stood Grace lighting +several candles, her right hand elevating the taper, her left hand on +her bosom, her face thoughtfully fixed on each wick as it kindled, as +if she saw in every flame’s growth the rise of a life to maturity. He +wondered what such unusual brilliancy could mean to-night. On getting +in-doors he found her father and step-mother in a state of suppressed +excitement, which at first he could not comprehend. + +“I am sorry about my biddings to-day,” said Giles. “I don’t know what I +was doing. I have come to say that any of the lots you may require are +yours.” + +“Oh, never mind—never mind,” replied the timber-merchant, with a slight +wave of his hand, “I have so much else to think of that I nearly had +forgot it. Just now, too, there are matters of a different kind from +trade to attend to, so don’t let it concern ye.” + +As the timber-merchant spoke, as it were, down to him from a higher +moral plane than his own, Giles turned to Mrs. Melbury. + +“Grace is going to the House to-morrow,” she said, quietly. “She is +looking out her things now. I dare say she is wanting me this minute to +assist her.” Thereupon Mrs. Melbury left the room. + +Nothing is more remarkable than the independent personality of the +tongue now and then. Mr. Melbury knew that his words had been a sort of +boast. He decried boasting, particularly to Giles; yet whenever the +subject was Grace, his judgment resigned the ministry of speech in +spite of him. + +Winterborne felt surprise, pleasure, and also a little apprehension at +the news. He repeated Mrs. Melbury’s words. + +“Yes,” said paternal pride, not sorry to have dragged out of him what +he could not in any circumstances have kept in. “Coming home from the +woods this afternoon we met Mrs. Charmond out for a ride. She spoke to +me on a little matter of business, and then got acquainted with Grace. +’Twas wonderful how she took to Grace in a few minutes; that +freemasonry of education made ’em close at once. Naturally enough she +was amazed that such an article—ha, ha!—could come out of my house. At +last it led on to Mis’ess Grace being asked to the House. So she’s busy +hunting up her frills and furbelows to go in.” As Giles remained in +thought without responding, Melbury continued: “But I’ll call her +down-stairs.” + +“No, no; don’t do that, since she’s busy,” said Winterborne. + +Melbury, feeling from the young man’s manner that his own talk had been +too much at Giles and too little to him, repented at once. His face +changed, and he said, in lower tones, with an effort, “She’s yours, +Giles, as far as I am concerned.” + +“Thanks—my best thanks....But I think, since it is all right between us +about the biddings, that I’ll not interrupt her now. I’ll step +homeward, and call another time.” + +On leaving the house he looked up at the bedroom again. Grace, +surrounded by a sufficient number of candles to answer all purposes of +self-criticism, was standing before a cheval-glass that her father had +lately bought expressly for her use; she was bonneted, cloaked, and +gloved, and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror, estimating her +aspect. Her face was lit with the natural elation of a young girl +hoping to inaugurate on the morrow an intimate acquaintance with a new, +interesting, and powerful friend. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +The inspiriting appointment which had led Grace Melbury to indulge in a +six-candle illumination for the arrangement of her attire, carried her +over the ground the next morning with a springy tread. Her sense of +being properly appreciated on her own native soil seemed to brighten +the atmosphere and herbage around her, as the glowworm’s lamp +irradiates the grass. Thus she moved along, a vessel of emotion going +to empty itself on she knew not what. + +Twenty minutes’ walking through copses, over a stile, and along an +upland lawn brought her to the verge of a deep glen, at the bottom of +which Hintock House appeared immediately beneath her eye. To describe +it as standing in a hollow would not express the situation of the +manor-house; it stood in a hole, notwithstanding that the hole was full +of beauty. From the spot which Grace had reached a stone could easily +have been thrown over or into, the birds’-nested chimneys of the +mansion. Its walls were surmounted by a battlemented parapet; but the +gray lead roofs were quite visible behind it, with their gutters, laps, +rolls, and skylights, together with incised letterings and +shoe-patterns cut by idlers thereon. + +The front of the house exhibited an ordinary manorial presentation of +Elizabethan windows, mullioned and hooded, worked in rich snuff-colored +freestone from local quarries. The ashlar of the walls, where not +overgrown with ivy and other creepers, was coated with lichen of every +shade, intensifying its luxuriance with its nearness to the ground, +till, below the plinth, it merged in moss. + +Above the house to the back was a dense plantation, the roots of whose +trees were above the level of the chimneys. The corresponding high +ground on which Grace stood was richly grassed, with only an old tree +here and there. A few sheep lay about, which, as they ruminated, looked +quietly into the bedroom windows. The situation of the house, +prejudicial to humanity, was a stimulus to vegetation, on which account +an endless shearing of the heavy-armed ivy was necessary, and a +continual lopping of trees and shrubs. It was an edifice built in times +when human constitutions were damp-proof, when shelter from the +boisterous was all that men thought of in choosing a dwelling-place, +the insidious being beneath their notice; and its hollow site was an +ocular reminder, by its unfitness for modern lives, of the fragility to +which these have declined. The highest architectural cunning could have +done nothing to make Hintock House dry and salubrious; and ruthless +ignorance could have done little to make it unpicturesque. It was +vegetable nature’s own home; a spot to inspire the painter and poet of +still life—if they did not suffer too much from the relaxing +atmosphere—and to draw groans from the gregariously disposed. Grace +descended the green escarpment by a zigzag path into the drive, which +swept round beneath the slope. The exterior of the house had been +familiar to her from her childhood, but she had never been inside, and +the approach to knowing an old thing in a new way was a lively +experience. It was with a little flutter that she was shown in; but she +recollected that Mrs. Charmond would probably be alone. Up to a few +days before this time that lady had been accompanied in her comings, +stayings, and goings by a relative believed to be her aunt; latterly, +however, these two ladies had separated, owing, it was supposed, to a +quarrel, and Mrs. Charmond had been left desolate. Being presumably a +woman who did not care for solitude, this deprivation might possibly +account for her sudden interest in Grace. + +Mrs. Charmond was at the end of a gallery opening from the hall when +Miss Melbury was announced, and saw her through the glass doors between +them. She came forward with a smile on her face, and told the young +girl it was good of her to come. + +“Ah! you have noticed those,” she said, seeing that Grace’s eyes were +attracted by some curious objects against the walls. “They are +man-traps. My husband was a connoisseur in man-traps and spring-guns +and such articles, collecting them from all his neighbors. He knew the +histories of all these—which gin had broken a man’s leg, which gun had +killed a man. That one, I remember his saying, had been set by a +game-keeper in the track of a notorious poacher; but the keeper, +forgetting what he had done, went that way himself, received the charge +in the lower part of his body, and died of the wound. I don’t like them +here, but I’ve never yet given directions for them to be taken away.” +She added, playfully, “Man-traps are of rather ominous significance +where a person of our sex lives, are they not?” + +Grace was bound to smile; but that side of womanliness was one which +her inexperience had no great zest in contemplating. + +“They are interesting, no doubt, as relics of a barbarous time happily +past,” she said, looking thoughtfully at the varied designs of these +instruments of torture—some with semi-circular jaws, some with +rectangular; most of them with long, sharp teeth, but a few with none, +so that their jaws looked like the blank gums of old age. + +“Well, we must not take them too seriously,” said Mrs. Charmond, with +an indolent turn of her head, and they moved on inward. When she had +shown her visitor different articles in cabinets that she deemed likely +to interest her, some tapestries, wood-carvings, ivories, miniatures, +and so on—always with a mien of listlessness which might either have +been constitutional, or partly owing to the situation of the place—they +sat down to an early cup of tea. + +“Will you pour it out, please? Do,” she said, leaning back in her +chair, and placing her hand above her forehead, while her almond +eyes—those long eyes so common to the angelic legions of early Italian +art—became longer, and her voice more languishing. She showed that +oblique-mannered softness which is perhaps most frequent in women of +darker complexion and more lymphatic temperament than Mrs. Charmond’s +was; who lingeringly smile their meanings to men rather than speak +them, who inveigle rather than prompt, and take advantage of currents +rather than steer. + +“I am the most inactive woman when I am here,” she said. “I think +sometimes I was born to live and do nothing, nothing, nothing but float +about, as we fancy we do sometimes in dreams. But that cannot be really +my destiny, and I must struggle against such fancies.” + +“I am so sorry you do not enjoy exertion—it is quite sad! I wish I +could tend you and make you very happy.” + +There was something so sympathetic, so appreciative, in the sound of +Grace’s voice, that it impelled people to play havoc with their +customary reservations in talking to her. “It is tender and kind of you +to feel that,” said Mrs. Charmond. “Perhaps I have given you the notion +that my languor is more than it really is. But this place oppresses me, +and I have a plan of going abroad a good deal. I used to go with a +relative, but that arrangement has dropped through.” Regarding Grace +with a final glance of criticism, she seemed to make up her mind to +consider the young girl satisfactory, and continued: “Now I am often +impelled to record my impressions of times and places. I have often +thought of writing a ‘New _Sentimental Journey_.’ But I cannot find +energy enough to do it alone. When I am at different places in the +south of Europe I feel a crowd of ideas and fancies thronging upon me +continually, but to unfold writing-materials, take up a cold steel pen, +and put these impressions down systematically on cold, smooth +paper—that I cannot do. So I have thought that if I always could have +somebody at my elbow with whom I am in sympathy, I might dictate any +ideas that come into my head. And directly I had made your acquaintance +the other day it struck me that you would suit me so well. Would you +like to undertake it? You might read to me, too, if desirable. Will you +think it over, and ask your parents if they are willing?” + +“Oh yes,” said Grace. “I am almost sure they would be very glad.” + +“You are so accomplished, I hear; I should be quite honored by such +intellectual company.” + +Grace, modestly blushing, deprecated any such idea. + +“Do you keep up your lucubrations at Little Hintock?” + +“Oh no. Lucubrations are not unknown at Little Hintock; but they are +not carried on by me.” + +“What—another student in that retreat?” + +“There is a surgeon lately come, and I have heard that he reads a great +deal—I see his light sometimes through the trees late at night.” + +“Oh yes—a doctor—I believe I was told of him. It is a strange place for +him to settle in.” + +“It is a convenient centre for a practice, they say. But he does not +confine his studies to medicine, it seems. He investigates theology and +metaphysics and all sorts of subjects.” + +“What is his name?” + +“Fitzpiers. He represents a very old family, I believe, the Fitzpierses +of Buckbury-Fitzpiers—not a great many miles from here.” + +“I am not sufficiently local to know the history of the family. I was +never in the county till my husband brought me here.” Mrs. Charmond did +not care to pursue this line of investigation. Whatever mysterious +merit might attach to family antiquity, it was one which, though she +herself could claim it, her adaptable, wandering _weltbürgerliche_ +nature had grown tired of caring about—a peculiarity that made her a +contrast to her neighbors. “It is of rather more importance to know +what the man is himself than what his family is,” she said, “if he is +going to practise upon us as a surgeon. Have you seen him?” + +Grace had not. “I think he is not a very old man,” she added. + +“Has he a wife?” + +“I am not aware that he has.” + +“Well, I hope he will be useful here. I must get to know him when I +come back. It will be very convenient to have a medical man—if he is +clever—in one’s own parish. I get dreadfully nervous sometimes, living +in such an outlandish place; and Sherton is so far to send to. No doubt +you feel Hintock to be a great change after watering-place life.” + +“I do. But it is home. It has its advantages and its disadvantages.” +Grace was thinking less of the solitude than of the attendant +circumstances. + +They chatted on for some time, Grace being set quite at her ease by her +entertainer. Mrs. Charmond was far too well-practised a woman not to +know that to show a marked patronage to a sensitive young girl who +would probably be very quick to discern it, was to demolish her dignity +rather than to establish it in that young girl’s eyes. So, being +violently possessed with her idea of making use of this gentle +acquaintance, ready and waiting at her own door, she took great pains +to win her confidence at starting. + +Just before Grace’s departure the two chanced to pause before a mirror +which reflected their faces in immediate juxtaposition, so as to bring +into prominence their resemblances and their contrasts. Both looked +attractive as glassed back by the faithful reflector; but Grace’s +countenance had the effect of making Mrs. Charmond appear more than her +full age. There are complexions which set off each other to great +advantage, and there are those which antagonize, the one killing or +damaging its neighbor unmercifully. This was unhappily the case here. +Mrs. Charmond fell into a meditation, and replied abstractedly to a +cursory remark of her companion’s. However, she parted from her young +friend in the kindliest tones, promising to send and let her know as +soon as her mind was made up on the arrangement she had suggested. + +When Grace had ascended nearly to the top of the adjoining slope she +looked back, and saw that Mrs. Charmond still stood at the door, +meditatively regarding her. + +Often during the previous night, after his call on the Melburys, +Winterborne’s thoughts ran upon Grace’s announced visit to Hintock +House. Why could he not have proposed to walk with her part of the way? +Something told him that she might not, on such an occasion, care for +his company. + +He was still more of that opinion when, standing in his garden next +day, he saw her go past on the journey with such a pretty pride in the +event. He wondered if her father’s ambition, which had purchased for +her the means of intellectual light and culture far beyond those of any +other native of the village, would conduce to the flight of her future +interests above and away from the local life which was once to her the +movement of the world. + +Nevertheless, he had her father’s permission to win her if he could; +and to this end it became desirable to bring matters soon to a crisis, +if he ever hoped to do so. If she should think herself too good for +him, he could let her go and make the best of his loss; but until he +had really tested her he could not say that she despised his suit. The +question was how to quicken events towards an issue. + +He thought and thought, and at last decided that as good a way as any +would be to give a Christmas party, and ask Grace and her parents to +come as chief guests. + +These ruminations were occupying him when there became audible a slight +knocking at his front door. He descended the path and looked out, and +beheld Marty South, dressed for out-door work. + +“Why didn’t you come, Mr. Winterborne?” she said. “I’ve been waiting +there hours and hours, and at last I thought I must try to find you.” + +“Bless my soul, I’d quite forgot,” said Giles. + +What he had forgotten was that there was a thousand young fir-trees to +be planted in a neighboring spot which had been cleared by the +wood-cutters, and that he had arranged to plant them with his own +hands. He had a marvellous power of making trees grow. Although he +would seem to shovel in the earth quite carelessly, there was a sort of +sympathy between himself and the fir, oak, or beech that he was +operating on, so that the roots took hold of the soil in a few days. +When, on the other hand, any of the journeymen planted, although they +seemed to go through an identically similar process, one quarter of the +trees would die away during the ensuing August. + +Hence Winterborne found delight in the work even when, as at present, +he contracted to do it on portions of the woodland in which he had no +personal interest. Marty, who turned her hand to anything, was usually +the one who performed the part of keeping the trees in a perpendicular +position while he threw in the mould. + +He accompanied her towards the spot, being stimulated yet further to +proceed with the work by the knowledge that the ground was close to the +way-side along which Grace must pass on her return from Hintock House. + +“You’ve a cold in the head, Marty,” he said, as they walked. “That +comes of cutting off your hair.” + +“I suppose it do. Yes; I’ve three headaches going on in my head at the +same time.” + +“Three headaches!” + +“Yes, a rheumatic headache in my poll, a sick headache over my eyes, +and a misery headache in the middle of my brain. However, I came out, +for I thought you might be waiting and grumbling like anything if I was +not there.” + +The holes were already dug, and they set to work. Winterborne’s fingers +were endowed with a gentle conjuror’s touch in spreading the roots of +each little tree, resulting in a sort of caress, under which the +delicate fibres all laid themselves out in their proper directions for +growth. He put most of these roots towards the south-west; for, he +said, in forty years’ time, when some great gale is blowing from that +quarter, the trees will require the strongest holdfast on that side to +stand against it and not fall. + +“How they sigh directly we put ’em upright, though while they are lying +down they don’t sigh at all,” said Marty. + +“Do they?” said Giles. “I’ve never noticed it.” + +She erected one of the young pines into its hole, and held up her +finger; the soft musical breathing instantly set in, which was not to +cease night or day till the grown tree should be felled—probably long +after the two planters should be felled themselves. + +“It seems to me,” the girl continued, “as if they sigh because they are +very sorry to begin life in earnest—just as we be.” + +“Just as we be?” He looked critically at her. “You ought not to feel +like that, Marty.” + +Her only reply was turning to take up the next tree; and they planted +on through a great part of the day, almost without another word. +Winterborne’s mind ran on his contemplated evening-party, his +abstraction being such that he hardly was conscious of Marty’s presence +beside him. From the nature of their employment, in which he handled +the spade and she merely held the tree, it followed that he got good +exercise and she got none. But she was an heroic girl, and though her +out-stretched hand was chill as a stone, and her cheeks blue, and her +cold worse than ever, she would not complain while he was disposed to +continue work. But when he paused she said, “Mr. Winterborne, can I run +down the lane and back to warm my feet?” + +“Why, yes, of course,” he said, awakening anew to her existence. +“Though I was just thinking what a mild day it is for the season. Now I +warrant that cold of yours is twice as bad as it was. You had no +business to chop that hair off, Marty; it serves you almost right. Look +here, cut off home at once.” + +“A run down the lane will be quite enough.” + +“No, it won’t. You ought not to have come out to-day at all.” + +“But I should like to finish the—” + +“Marty, I tell you to go home,” said he, peremptorily. “I can manage to +keep the rest of them upright with a stick or something.” + +She went away without saying any more. When she had gone down the +orchard a little distance she looked back. Giles suddenly went after +her. + +“Marty, it was for your good that I was rough, you know. But warm +yourself in your own way, I don’t care.” + +When she had run off he fancied he discerned a woman’s dress through +the holly-bushes which divided the coppice from the road. It was Grace +at last, on her way back from the interview with Mrs. Charmond. He +threw down the tree he was planting, and was about to break through the +belt of holly when he suddenly became aware of the presence of another +man, who was looking over the hedge on the opposite side of the way +upon the figure of the unconscious Grace. He appeared as a handsome and +gentlemanly personage of six or eight and twenty, and was quizzing her +through an eye-glass. Seeing that Winterborne was noticing him, he let +his glass drop with a click upon the rail which protected the hedge, +and walked away in the opposite direction. Giles knew in a moment that +this must be Mr. Fitzpiers. When he was gone, Winterborne pushed +through the hollies, and emerged close beside the interesting object of +their contemplation. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +“I heard the bushes move long before I saw you,” she began. “I said +first, ‘it is some terrible beast;’ next, ‘it is a poacher;’ next, ‘it +is a friend!’” + +He regarded her with a slight smile, weighing, not her speech, but the +question whether he should tell her that she had been watched. He +decided in the negative. + +“You have been to the house?” he said. “But I need not ask.” The fact +was that there shone upon Miss Melbury’s face a species of exaltation, +which saw no environing details nor his own occupation; nothing more +than his bare presence. + +“Why need you not ask?” + +“Your face is like the face of Moses when he came down from the Mount.” + +She reddened a little and said, “How can you be so profane, Giles +Winterborne?” + +“How can you think so much of that class of people? Well, I beg pardon; +I didn’t mean to speak so freely. How do you like her house and her?” + +“Exceedingly. I had not been inside the walls since I was a child, when +it used to be let to strangers, before Mrs. Charmond’s late husband +bought the property. She is SO nice!” And Grace fell into such an +abstracted gaze at the imaginary image of Mrs. Charmond and her +niceness that it almost conjured up a vision of that lady in mid-air +before them. + +“She has only been here a month or two, it seems, and cannot stay much +longer, because she finds it so lonely and damp in winter. She is going +abroad. Only think, she would like me to go with her.” + +Giles’s features stiffened a little at the news. “Indeed; what for? But +I won’t keep you standing here. Hoi, Robert!” he cried to a swaying +collection of clothes in the distance, which was the figure of Creedle +his man. “Go on filling in there till I come back.” + +“I’m a-coming, sir; I’m a-coming.” + +“Well, the reason is this,” continued she, as they went on +together—“Mrs. Charmond has a delightful side to her character—a desire +to record her impressions of travel, like Alexandre Dumas, and Méry, +and Sterne, and others. But she cannot find energy enough to do it +herself.” And Grace proceeded to explain Mrs. Charmond’s proposal at +large. “My notion is that Méry’s style will suit her best, because he +writes in that soft, emotional, luxurious way she has,” Grace said, +musingly. + +“Indeed!” said Winterborne, with mock awe. “Suppose you talk over my +head a little longer, Miss Grace Melbury?” + +“Oh, I didn’t mean it!” she said, repentantly, looking into his eyes. +“And as for myself, I hate French books. And I love dear old Hintock, +_and the people in it_, fifty times better than all the Continent. But +the scheme; I think it an enchanting notion, don’t you, Giles?” + +“It is well enough in one sense, but it will take you away,” said he, +mollified. + +“Only for a short time. We should return in May.” + +“Well, Miss Melbury, it is a question for your father.” + +Winterborne walked with her nearly to her house. He had awaited her +coming, mainly with the view of mentioning to her his proposal to have +a Christmas party; but homely Christmas gatherings in the venerable and +jovial Hintock style seemed so primitive and uncouth beside the lofty +matters of her converse and thought that he refrained. + +As soon as she was gone he turned back towards the scene of his +planting, and could not help saying to himself as he walked, that this +engagement of his was a very unpromising business. Her outing to-day +had not improved it. A woman who could go to Hintock House and be +friendly with its mistress, enter into the views of its mistress, talk +like her, and dress not much unlike her, why, she would hardly be +contented with him, a yeoman, now immersed in tree-planting, even +though he planted them well. “And yet she’s a true-hearted girl,” he +said, thinking of her words about Hintock. “I must bring matters to a +point, and there’s an end of it.” + +When he reached the plantation he found that Marty had come back, and +dismissing Creedle, he went on planting silently with the girl as +before. + +“Suppose, Marty,” he said, after a while, looking at her extended arm, +upon which old scratches from briers showed themselves purple in the +cold wind—“suppose you know a person, and want to bring that person to +a good understanding with you, do you think a Christmas party of some +sort is a warming-up thing, and likely to be useful in hastening on the +matter?” + +“Is there to be dancing?” + +“There might be, certainly.” + +“Will He dance with She?” + +“Well, yes.” + +“Then it might bring things to a head, one way or the other; I won’t be +the one to say which.” + +“It shall be done,” said Winterborne, not to her, though he spoke the +words quite loudly. And as the day was nearly ended, he added, “Here, +Marty, I’ll send up a man to plant the rest to-morrow. I’ve other +things to think of just now.” + +She did not inquire what other things, for she had seen him walking +with Grace Melbury. She looked towards the western sky, which was now +aglow like some vast foundery wherein new worlds were being cast. +Across it the bare bough of a tree stretched horizontally, revealing +every twig against the red, and showing in dark profile every beck and +movement of three pheasants that were settling themselves down on it in +a row to roost. + +“It will be fine to-morrow,” said Marty, observing them with the +vermilion light of the sun in the pupils of her eyes, “for they are +a-croupied down nearly at the end of the bough. If it were going to be +stormy they’d squeeze close to the trunk. The weather is almost all +they have to think of, isn’t it, Mr. Winterborne? and so they must be +lighter-hearted than we.” + +“I dare say they are,” said Winterborne. + +Before taking a single step in the preparations, Winterborne, with no +great hopes, went across that evening to the timber-merchant’s to +ascertain if Grace and her parents would honor him with their presence. +Having first to set his nightly gins in the garden, to catch the +rabbits that ate his winter-greens, his call was delayed till just +after the rising of the moon, whose rays reached the Hintock houses but +fitfully as yet, on account of the trees. Melbury was crossing his yard +on his way to call on some one at the larger village, but he readily +turned and walked up and down the path with the young man. + +Giles, in his self-deprecatory sense of living on a much smaller scale +than the Melburys did, would not for the world imply that his +invitation was to a gathering of any importance. So he put it in the +mild form of “Can you come in for an hour, when you have done business, +the day after to-morrow; and Mrs. and Miss Melbury, if they have +nothing more pressing to do?” + +Melbury would give no answer at once. “No, I can’t tell you to-day,” he +said. “I must talk it over with the women. As far as I am concerned, my +dear Giles, you know I’ll come with pleasure. But how do I know what +Grace’s notions may be? You see, she has been away among cultivated +folks a good while; and now this acquaintance with Mrs. Charmond—Well, +I’ll ask her. I can say no more.” + +When Winterborne was gone the timber-merchant went on his way. He knew +very well that Grace, whatever her own feelings, would either go or not +go, according as he suggested; and his instinct was, for the moment, to +suggest the negative. His errand took him past the church, and the way +to his destination was either across the church-yard or along-side it, +the distances being the same. For some reason or other he chose the +former way. + +The moon was faintly lighting up the gravestones, and the path, and the +front of the building. Suddenly Mr. Melbury paused, turned ill upon the +grass, and approached a particular headstone, where he read, “In memory +of John Winterborne,” with the subjoined date and age. It was the grave +of Giles’s father. + +The timber-merchant laid his hand upon the stone, and was humanized. +“Jack, my wronged friend!” he said. “I’ll be faithful to my plan of +making amends to ’ee.” + +When he reached home that evening, he said to Grace and Mrs. Melbury, +who were working at a little table by the fire, + +“Giles wants us to go down and spend an hour with him the day after +to-morrow; and I’m thinking, that as ’tis Giles who asks us, we’ll go.” + +They assented without demur, and accordingly the timber-merchant sent +Giles the next morning an answer in the affirmative. + +Winterborne, in his modesty, or indifference, had mentioned no +particular hour in his invitation; and accordingly Mr. Melbury and his +family, expecting no other guests, chose their own time, which chanced +to be rather early in the afternoon, by reason of the somewhat quicker +despatch than usual of the timber-merchant’s business that day. To show +their sense of the unimportance of the occasion, they walked quite +slowly to the house, as if they were merely out for a ramble, and going +to nothing special at all; or at most intending to pay a casual call +and take a cup of tea. + +At this hour stir and bustle pervaded the interior of Winterborne’s +domicile from cellar to apple-loft. He had planned an elaborate high +tea for six o’clock or thereabouts, and a good roaring supper to come +on about eleven. Being a bachelor of rather retiring habits, the whole +of the preparations devolved upon himself and his trusty man and +familiar, Robert Creedle, who did everything that required doing, from +making Giles’s bed to catching moles in his field. He was a survival +from the days when Giles’s father held the homestead, and Giles was a +playing boy. + +These two, with a certain dilatoriousness which appertained to both, +were now in the heat of preparation in the bake-house, expecting nobody +before six o’clock. Winterborne was standing before the brick oven in +his shirt-sleeves, tossing in thorn sprays, and stirring about the +blazing mass with a long-handled, three-pronged Beelzebub kind of fork, +the heat shining out upon his streaming face and making his eyes like +furnaces, the thorns crackling and sputtering; while Creedle, having +ranged the pastry dishes in a row on the table till the oven should be +ready, was pressing out the crust of a final apple-pie with a +rolling-pin. A great pot boiled on the fire, and through the open door +of the back kitchen a boy was seen seated on the fender, emptying the +snuffers and scouring the candlesticks, a row of the latter standing +upside down on the hob to melt out the grease. + +Looking up from the rolling-pin, Creedle saw passing the window first +the timber-merchant, in his second-best suit, Mrs. Melbury in her best +silk, and Grace in the fashionable attire which, in part brought home +with her from the Continent, she had worn on her visit to Mrs. +Charmond’s. The eyes of the three had been attracted to the proceedings +within by the fierce illumination which the oven threw out upon the +operators and their utensils. + +“Lord, Lord! if they baint come a’ready!” said Creedle. + +“No—hey?” said Giles, looking round aghast; while the boy in the +background waved a reeking candlestick in his delight. As there was no +help for it, Winterborne went to meet them in the door-way. + +“My dear Giles, I see we have made a mistake in the time,” said the +timber-merchant’s wife, her face lengthening with concern. + +“Oh, it is not much difference. I hope you’ll come in.” + +“But this means a regular randyvoo!” said Mr. Melbury, accusingly, +glancing round and pointing towards the bake-house with his stick. + +“Well, yes,” said Giles. + +“And—not Great Hintock band, and dancing, surely?” + +“I told three of ’em they might drop in if they’d nothing else to do,” +Giles mildly admitted. + +“Now, why the name didn’t ye tell us ’twas going to be a serious kind +of thing before? How should I know what folk mean if they don’t say? +Now, shall we come in, or shall we go home and come back along in a +couple of hours?” + +“I hope you’ll stay, if you’ll be so good as not to mind, now you are +here. I shall have it all right and tidy in a very little time. I ought +not to have been so backward.” Giles spoke quite anxiously for one of +his undemonstrative temperament; for he feared that if the Melburys +once were back in their own house they would not be disposed to turn +out again. + +“’Tis we ought not to have been so forward; that’s what ’tis,” said Mr. +Melbury, testily. “Don’t keep us here in the sitting-room; lead on to +the bakehouse, man. Now we are here we’ll help ye get ready for the +rest. Here, mis’ess, take off your things, and help him out in his +baking, or he won’t get done to-night. I’ll finish heating the oven, +and set you free to go and skiver up them ducks.” His eye had passed +with pitiless directness of criticism into yet remote recesses of +Winterborne’s awkwardly built premises, where the aforesaid birds were +hanging. + +“And I’ll help finish the tarts,” said Grace, cheerfully. + +“I don’t know about that,” said her father. “’Tisn’t quite so much in +your line as it is in your mother-law’s and mine.” + +“Of course I couldn’t let you, Grace!” said Giles, with some distress. + +“I’ll do it, of course,” said Mrs. Melbury, taking off her silk train, +hanging it up to a nail, carefully rolling back her sleeves, pinning +them to her shoulders, and stripping Giles of his apron for her own +use. + +So Grace pottered idly about, while her father and his wife helped on +the preparations. A kindly pity of his household management, which +Winterborne saw in her eyes whenever he caught them, depressed him much +more than her contempt would have done. + +Creedle met Giles at the pump after a while, when each of the others +was absorbed in the difficulties of a _cuisine_ based on utensils, +cupboards, and provisions that were strange to them. He groaned to the +young man in a whisper, “This is a bruckle het, maister, I’m much +afeared! Who’d ha’ thought they’d ha’ come so soon?” + +The bitter placidity of Winterborne’s look adumbrated the misgivings he +did not care to express. “Have you got the celery ready?” he asked, +quickly. + +“Now that’s a thing I never could mind; no, not if you’d paid me in +silver and gold. And I don’t care who the man is, I says that a stick +of celery that isn’t scrubbed with the scrubbing-brush is not clean.” + +“_Very_ well, very well! I’ll attend to it. You go and get ’em +comfortable in-doors.” + +He hastened to the garden, and soon returned, tossing the stalks to +Creedle, who was still in a tragic mood. “If ye’d ha’ married, d’ye +see, maister,” he said, “this caddle couldn’t have happened to us.” + +Everything being at last under way, the oven set, and all done that +could insure the supper turning up ready at some time or other, Giles +and his friends entered the parlor, where the Melburys again dropped +into position as guests, though the room was not nearly so warm and +cheerful as the blazing bakehouse. Others now arrived, among them +Farmer Bawtree and the hollow-turner, and tea went off very well. + +Grace’s disposition to make the best of everything, and to wink at +deficiencies in Winterborne’s menage, was so uniform and persistent +that he suspected her of seeing even more deficiencies than he was +aware of. That suppressed sympathy which had showed in her face ever +since her arrival told him as much too plainly. + +“This muddling style of house-keeping is what you’ve not lately been +used to, I suppose?” he said, when they were a little apart. + +“No; but I like it; it reminds me so pleasantly that everything here in +dear old Hintock is just as it used to be. The oil is—not quite nice; +but everything else is.” + +“The oil?” + +“On the chairs, I mean; because it gets on one’s dress. Still, mine is +not a new one.” + +Giles found that Creedle, in his zeal to make things look bright, had +smeared the chairs with some greasy kind of furniture-polish, and +refrained from rubbing it dry in order not to diminish the mirror-like +effect that the mixture produced as laid on. Giles apologized and +called Creedle; but he felt that the Fates were against him. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +Supper-time came, and with it the hot-baked meats from the oven, laid +on a snowy cloth fresh from the press, and reticulated with folds, as +in Flemish “Last Suppers.” Creedle and the boy fetched and carried with +amazing alacrity, the latter, to mollify his superior and make things +pleasant, expressing his admiration of Creedle’s cleverness when they +were alone. + +“I s’pose the time when you learned all these knowing things, Mr. +Creedle, was when you was in the militia?” + +“Well, yes. I seed the world at that time somewhat, certainly, and many +ways of strange dashing life. Not but that Giles has worked hard in +helping me to bring things to such perfection to-day. ‘Giles,’ says I, +though he’s maister. Not that I should call’n maister by rights, for +his father growed up side by side with me, as if one mother had twinned +us and been our nourishing.” + +“I s’pose your memory can reach a long way back into history, Mr. +Creedle?” + +“Oh yes. Ancient days, when there was battles and famines and +hang-fairs and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday. Ah, many’s the +patriarch I’ve seed come and go in this parish! There, he’s calling for +more plates. Lord, why can’t ’em turn their plates bottom upward for +pudding, as they used to do in former days?” + +Meanwhile, in the adjoining room Giles was presiding in a +half-unconscious state. He could not get over the initial failures in +his scheme for advancing his suit, and hence he did not know that he +was eating mouthfuls of bread and nothing else, and continually +snuffing the two candles next him till he had reduced them to mere +glimmers drowned in their own grease. Creedle now appeared with a +specially prepared dish, which he served by elevating the little +three-legged pot that contained it, and tilting the contents into a +dish, exclaiming, simultaneously, “Draw back, gentlemen and ladies, +please!” + +A splash followed. Grace gave a quick, involuntary nod and blink, and +put her handkerchief to her face. + +“Good heavens! what did you do that for, Creedle?” said Giles, sternly, +and jumping up. + +“’Tis how I do it when they baint here, maister,” mildly expostulated +Creedle, in an aside audible to all the company. + +“Well, yes—but—” replied Giles. He went over to Grace, and hoped none +of it had gone into her eye. + +“Oh no,” she said. “Only a sprinkle on my face. It was nothing.” + +“Kiss it and make it well,” gallantly observed Mr. Bawtree. + +Miss Melbury blushed. + +The timber-merchant said, quickly, “Oh, it is nothing! She must bear +these little mishaps.” But there could be discerned in his face +something which said “I ought to have foreseen this.” + +Giles himself, since the untoward beginning of the feast, had not quite +liked to see Grace present. He wished he had not asked such people as +Bawtree and the hollow-turner. He had done it, in dearth of other +friends, that the room might not appear empty. In his mind’s eye, +before the event, they had been the mere background or padding of the +scene, but somehow in reality they were the most prominent personages +there. + +After supper they played cards, Bawtree and the hollow-turner +monopolizing the new packs for an interminable game, in which a lump of +chalk was incessantly used—a game those two always played wherever they +were, taking a solitary candle and going to a private table in a corner +with the mien of persons bent on weighty matters. The rest of the +company on this account were obliged to put up with old packs for their +round game, that had been lying by in a drawer ever since the time that +Giles’s grandmother was alive. Each card had a great stain in the +middle of its back, produced by the touch of generations of damp and +excited thumbs now fleshless in the grave; and the kings and queens +wore a decayed expression of feature, as if they were rather an +impecunious dethroned race of monarchs hiding in obscure slums than +real regal characters. Every now and then the comparatively few remarks +of the players at the round game were harshly intruded on by the +measured jingle of Farmer Bawtree and the hollow-turner from the back +of the room: + +“And I′ will hold′ a wa′-ger with you′ +That all′ these marks′ are thirt′-y two!” + + +accompanied by rapping strokes with the chalk on the table; then an +exclamation, an argument, a dealing of the cards; then the commencement +of the rhymes anew. + +The timber-merchant showed his feelings by talking with a satisfied +sense of weight in his words, and by praising the party in a +patronizing tone, when Winterborne expressed his fear that he and his +were not enjoying themselves. + +“Oh yes, yes; pretty much. What handsome glasses those are! I didn’t +know you had such glasses in the house. Now, Lucy” (to his wife), “you +ought to get some like them for ourselves.” And when they had abandoned +cards, and Winterborne was talking to Melbury by the fire, it was the +timber-merchant who stood with his back to the mantle in a proprietary +attitude, from which post of vantage he critically regarded Giles’s +person, rather as a superficies than as a solid with ideas and feelings +inside it, saying, “What a splendid coat that one is you have on, +Giles! I can’t get such coats. You dress better than I.” + +After supper there was a dance, the bandsmen from Great Hintock having +arrived some time before. Grace had been away from home so long that +she had forgotten the old figures, and hence did not join in the +movement. Then Giles felt that all was over. As for her, she was +thinking, as she watched the gyrations, of a very different measure +that she had been accustomed to tread with a bevy of sylph-like +creatures in muslin, in the music-room of a large house, most of whom +were now moving in scenes widely removed from this, both as regarded +place and character. + +A woman she did not know came and offered to tell her fortune with the +abandoned cards. Grace assented to the proposal, and the woman told her +tale unskilfully, for want of practice, as she declared. + +Mr. Melbury was standing by, and exclaimed, contemptuously, “Tell her +fortune, indeed! Her fortune has been told by men of science—what do +you call ’em? Phrenologists. You can’t teach her anything new. She’s +been too far among the wise ones to be astonished at anything she can +hear among us folks in Hintock.” + +At last the time came for breaking up, Melbury and his family being the +earliest to leave, the two card-players still pursuing their game +doggedly in the corner, where they had completely covered Giles’s +mahogany table with chalk scratches. The three walked home, the +distance being short and the night clear. + +“Well, Giles is a very good fellow,” said Mr. Melbury, as they struck +down the lane under boughs which formed a black filigree in which the +stars seemed set. + +“Certainly he is,” said Grace, quickly, and in such a tone as to show +that he stood no lower, if no higher, in her regard than he had stood +before. + +When they were opposite an opening through which, by day, the doctor’s +house could be seen, they observed a light in one of his rooms, +although it was now about two o’clock. + +“The doctor is not abed yet,” said Mrs. Melbury. + +“Hard study, no doubt,” said her husband. + +“One would think that, as he seems to have nothing to do about here by +day, he could at least afford to go to bed early at night. ’Tis +astonishing how little we see of him.” + +Melbury’s mind seemed to turn with much relief to the contemplation of +Mr. Fitzpiers after the scenes of the evening. “It is natural enough,” +he replied. “What can a man of that sort find to interest him in +Hintock? I don’t expect he’ll stay here long.” + +His mind reverted to Giles’s party, and when they were nearly home he +spoke again, his daughter being a few steps in advance: “It is hardly +the line of life for a girl like Grace, after what she’s been +accustomed to. I didn’t foresee that in sending her to boarding-school +and letting her travel, and what not, to make her a good bargain for +Giles, I should be really spoiling her for him. Ah, ’tis a thousand +pities! But he ought to have her—he ought!” + +At this moment the two exclusive, chalk-mark men, having at last really +finished their play, could be heard coming along in the rear, +vociferously singing a song to march-time, and keeping vigorous step to +the same in far-reaching strides— + +“She may go, oh! +She may go, oh! +She may go to the d—— for me!” + + +The timber-merchant turned indignantly to Mrs. Melbury. “That’s the +sort of society we’ve been asked to meet,” he said. “For us old folk it +didn’t matter; but for Grace—Giles should have known better!” + +Meanwhile, in the empty house from which the guests had just cleared +out, the subject of their discourse was walking from room to room +surveying the general displacement of furniture with no ecstatic +feeling; rather the reverse, indeed. At last he entered the bakehouse, +and found there Robert Creedle sitting over the embers, also lost in +contemplation. Winterborne sat down beside him. + +“Well, Robert, you must be tired. You’d better get on to bed.” + +“Ay, ay, Giles—what do I call ye? Maister, I would say. But ’tis well +to think the day _is_ done, when ’tis done.” + +Winterborne had abstractedly taken the poker, and with a wrinkled +forehead was ploughing abroad the wood-embers on the broad hearth, till +it was like a vast scorching Sahara, with red-hot bowlders lying about +everywhere. “Do you think it went off well, Creedle?” he asked. + +“The victuals did; that I know. And the drink did; that I steadfastly +believe, from the holler sound of the barrels. Good, honest drink +’twere, the headiest mead I ever brewed; and the best wine that berries +could rise to; and the briskest Horner-and-Cleeves cider ever wrung +down, leaving out the spice and sperrits I put into it, while that +egg-flip would ha’ passed through muslin, so little curdled ’twere. +’Twas good enough to make any king’s heart merry—ay, to make his whole +carcass smile. Still, I don’t deny I’m afeared some things didn’t go +well with He and his.” Creedle nodded in a direction which signified +where the Melburys lived. + +“I’m afraid, too, that it was a failure there!” + +“If so, ’twere doomed to be so. Not but what that snail might as well +have come upon anybody else’s plate as hers.” + +“What snail?” + +“Well, maister, there was a little one upon the edge of her plate when +I brought it out; and so it must have been in her few leaves of +wintergreen.” + +“How the deuce did a snail get there?” + +“That I don’t know no more than the dead; but there my gentleman was.” + +“But, Robert, of all places, that was where he shouldn’t have been!” + +“Well, ’twas his native home, come to that; and where else could we +expect him to be? I don’t care who the man is, snails and caterpillars +always will lurk in close to the stump of cabbages in that tantalizing +way.” + +“He wasn’t alive, I suppose?” said Giles, with a shudder on Grace’s +account. + +“Oh no. He was well boiled. I warrant him well boiled. God forbid that +a _live_ snail should be seed on any plate of victuals that’s served by +Robert Creedle....But Lord, there; I don’t mind ’em myself—them small +ones, for they were born on cabbage, and they’ve lived on cabbage, so +they must be made of cabbage. But she, the close-mouthed little lady, +she didn’t say a word about it; though ’twould have made good small +conversation as to the nater of such creatures; especially as wit ran +short among us sometimes.” + +“Oh yes—’tis all over!” murmured Giles to himself, shaking his head +over the glooming plain of embers, and lining his forehead more than +ever. “Do you know, Robert,” he said, “that she’s been accustomed to +servants and everything superfine these many years? How, then, could +she stand our ways?” + +“Well, all I can say is, then, that she ought to hob-and-nob elsewhere. +They shouldn’t have schooled her so monstrous high, or else bachelor +men shouldn’t give randys, or if they do give ’em, only to their own +race.” + +“Perhaps that’s true,” said Winterborne, rising and yawning a sigh. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +“’Tis a pity—a thousand pities!” her father kept saying next morning at +breakfast, Grace being still in her bedroom. + +But how could he, with any self-respect, obstruct Winterborne’s suit at +this stage, and nullify a scheme he had labored to promote—was, indeed, +mechanically promoting at this moment? A crisis was approaching, mainly +as a result of his contrivances, and it would have to be met. + +But here was the fact, which could not be disguised: since seeing what +an immense change her last twelve months of absence had produced in his +daughter, after the heavy sum per annum that he had been spending for +several years upon her education, he was reluctant to let her marry +Giles Winterborne, indefinitely occupied as woodsman, cider-merchant, +apple-farmer, and what not, even were she willing to marry him herself. + +“She will be his wife if you don’t upset her notion that she’s bound to +accept him as an understood thing,” said Mrs. Melbury. “Bless ye, +she’ll soon shake down here in Hintock, and be content with Giles’s way +of living, which he’ll improve with what money she’ll have from you. +’Tis the strangeness after her genteel life that makes her feel +uncomfortable at first. Why, when _I_ saw Hintock the first time I +thought I never could like it. But things gradually get familiar, and +stone floors seem not so very cold and hard, and the hooting of the +owls not so very dreadful, and loneliness not so very lonely, after a +while.” + +“Yes, I believe ye. That’s just it. I _know_ Grace will gradually sink +down to our level again, and catch our manners and way of speaking, and +feel a drowsy content in being Giles’s wife. But I can’t bear the +thought of dragging down to that old level as promising a piece of +maidenhood as ever lived—fit to ornament a palace wi’—that I’ve taken +so much trouble to lift up. Fancy her white hands getting redder every +day, and her tongue losing its pretty up-country curl in talking, and +her bounding walk becoming the regular Hintock shail and wamble!” + +“She may shail, but she’ll never wamble,” replied his wife, decisively. + +When Grace came down-stairs he complained of her lying in bed so late; +not so much moved by a particular objection to that form of indulgence +as discomposed by these other reflections. + +The corners of her pretty mouth dropped a little down. “You used to +complain with justice when I was a girl,” she said. “But I am a woman +now, and can judge for myself....But it is not that; it is something +else!” Instead of sitting down she went outside the door. + +He was sorry. The petulance that relatives show towards each other is +in truth directed against that intangible Causality which has shaped +the situation no less for the offenders than the offended, but is too +elusive to be discerned and cornered by poor humanity in irritated +mood. Melbury followed her. She had rambled on to the paddock, where +the white frost lay, and where starlings in flocks of twenties and +thirties were walking about, watched by a comfortable family of +sparrows perched in a line along the string-course of the chimney, +preening themselves in the rays of the sun. + +“Come in to breakfast, my girl,” he said. “And as to Giles, use your +own mind. Whatever pleases you will please me.” + +“I am promised to him, father; and I cannot help thinking that in honor +I ought to marry him, whenever I do marry.” + +He had a strong suspicion that somewhere in the bottom of her heart +there pulsed an old simple indigenous feeling favorable to Giles, +though it had become overlaid with implanted tastes. But he would not +distinctly express his views on the promise. “Very well,” he said. “But +I hope I sha’n’t lose you yet. Come in to breakfast. What did you think +of the inside of Hintock House the other day?” + +“I liked it much.” + +“Different from friend Winterborne’s?” + +She said nothing; but he who knew her was aware that she meant by her +silence to reproach him with drawing cruel comparisons. + +“Mrs. Charmond has asked you to come again—when, did you say?” + +“She thought Tuesday, but would send the day before to let me know if +it suited her.” And with this subject upon their lips they entered to +breakfast. + +Tuesday came, but no message from Mrs. Charmond. Nor was there any on +Wednesday. In brief, a fortnight slipped by without a sign, and it +looked suspiciously as if Mrs. Charmond were not going further in the +direction of “taking up” Grace at present. + +Her father reasoned thereon. Immediately after his daughter’s two +indubitable successes with Mrs. Charmond—the interview in the wood and +a visit to the House—she had attended Winterborne’s party. No doubt the +out-and-out joviality of that gathering had made it a topic in the +neighborhood, and that every one present as guests had been widely +spoken of—Grace, with her exceptional qualities, above all. What, then, +so natural as that Mrs. Charmond should have heard the village news, +and become quite disappointed in her expectations of Grace at finding +she kept such company? + +Full of this _post hoc_ argument, Mr. Melbury overlooked the infinite +throng of other possible reasons and unreasons for a woman changing her +mind. For instance, while knowing that his Grace was attractive, he +quite forgot that Mrs. Charmond had also great pretensions to beauty. +In his simple estimate, an attractive woman attracted all around. + +So it was settled in his mind that her sudden mingling with the +villagers at the unlucky Winterborne’s was the cause of her most +grievous loss, as he deemed it, in the direction of Hintock House. + +“’Tis a thousand pities!” he would repeat to himself. “I am ruining her +for conscience’ sake!” + +It was one morning later on, while these things were agitating his +mind, that, curiously enough, something darkened the window just as +they finished breakfast. Looking up, they saw Giles in person mounted +on horseback, and straining his neck forward, as he had been doing for +some time, to catch their attention through the window. Grace had been +the first to see him, and involuntarily exclaimed, “There he is—and a +new horse!” + +On their faces as they regarded Giles were written their suspended +thoughts and compound feelings concerning him, could he have read them +through those old panes. But he saw nothing: his features just now +were, for a wonder, lit up with a red smile at some other idea. So they +rose from breakfast and went to the door, Grace with an anxious, +wistful manner, her father in a reverie, Mrs. Melbury placid and +inquiring. “We have come out to look at your horse,” she said. + +It could be seen that he was pleased at their attention, and explained +that he had ridden a mile or two to try the animal’s paces. “I bought +her,” he added, with warmth so severely repressed as to seem +indifference, “because she has been used to carry a lady.” + +Still Mr. Melbury did not brighten. Mrs. Melbury said, “And is she +quiet?” + +Winterborne assured her that there was no doubt of it. “I took care of +that. She’s five-and-twenty, and very clever for her age.” + +“Well, get off and come in,” said Melbury, brusquely; and Giles +dismounted accordingly. + +This event was the concrete result of Winterborne’s thoughts during the +past week or two. The want of success with his evening party he had +accepted in as philosophic a mood as he was capable of; but there had +been enthusiasm enough left in him one day at Sherton Abbas market to +purchase this old mare, which had belonged to a neighboring parson with +several daughters, and was offered him to carry either a gentleman or a +lady, and to do odd jobs of carting and agriculture at a pinch. This +obliging quadruped seemed to furnish Giles with a means of reinstating +himself in Melbury’s good opinion as a man of considerateness by +throwing out future possibilities to Grace. + +The latter looked at him with intensified interest this morning, in the +mood which is altogether peculiar to woman’s nature, and which, when +reduced into plain words, seems as impossible as the penetrability of +matter—that of entertaining a tender pity for the object of her own +unnecessary coldness. The imperturbable poise which marked Winterborne +in general was enlivened now by a freshness and animation that set a +brightness in his eye and on his cheek. Mrs. Melbury asked him to have +some breakfast, and he pleasurably replied that he would join them, +with his usual lack of tactical observation, not perceiving that they +had all finished the meal, that the hour was inconveniently late, and +that the note piped by the kettle denoted it to be nearly empty; so +that fresh water had to be brought in, trouble taken to make it boil, +and a general renovation of the table carried out. Neither did he know, +so full was he of his tender ulterior object in buying that horse, how +many cups of tea he was gulping down one after another, nor how the +morning was slipping, nor how he was keeping the family from dispersing +about their duties. + +Then he told throughout the humorous story of the horse’s purchase, +looking particularly grim at some fixed object in the room, a way he +always looked when he narrated anything that amused him. While he was +still thinking of the scene he had described, Grace rose and said, “I +have to go and help my mother now, Mr. Winterborne.” + +“H’m!” he ejaculated, turning his eyes suddenly upon her. + +She repeated her words with a slight blush of awkwardness; whereupon +Giles, becoming suddenly conscious, too conscious, jumped up, saying, +“To be sure, to be sure!” wished them quickly good-morning, and bolted +out of the house. + +Nevertheless he had, upon the whole, strengthened his position, with +her at least. Time, too, was on his side, for (as her father saw with +some regret) already the homeliness of Hintock life was fast becoming +effaced from her observation as a singularity; just as the first +strangeness of a face from which we have for years been separated +insensibly passes off with renewed intercourse, and tones itself down +into simple identity with the lineaments of the past. + +Thus Mr. Melbury went out of the house still unreconciled to the +sacrifice of the gem he had been at such pains in mounting. He fain +could hope, in the secret nether chamber of his mind, that something +would happen, before the balance of her feeling had quite turned in +Winterborne’s favor, to relieve his conscience and preserve her on her +elevated plane. + +He could not forget that Mrs. Charmond had apparently abandoned all +interest in his daughter as suddenly as she had conceived it, and was +as firmly convinced as ever that the comradeship which Grace had shown +with Giles and his crew by attending his party had been the cause. + +Matters lingered on thus. And then, as a hoop by gentle knocks on this +side and on that is made to travel in specific directions, the little +touches of circumstance in the life of this young girl shaped the +curves of her career. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +It was a day of rather bright weather for the season. Miss Melbury went +out for a morning walk, and her ever-regardful father, having an hour’s +leisure, offered to walk with her. The breeze was fresh and quite +steady, filtering itself through the denuded mass of twigs without +swaying them, but making the point of each ivy-leaf on the trunks +scratch its underlying neighbor restlessly. Grace’s lips sucked in this +native air of hers like milk. They soon reached a place where the wood +ran down into a corner, and went outside it towards comparatively open +ground. Having looked round about, they were intending to re-enter the +copse when a fox quietly emerged with a dragging brush, trotted past +them tamely as a domestic cat, and disappeared amid some dead fern. +They walked on, her father merely observing, after watching the animal, +“They are hunting somewhere near.” + +Farther up they saw in the mid-distance the hounds running hither and +thither, as if there were little or no scent that day. Soon divers +members of the hunt appeared on the scene, and it was evident from +their movements that the chase had been stultified by general +puzzle-headedness as to the whereabouts of the intended victim. In a +minute a farmer rode up to the two pedestrians, panting with acteonic +excitement, and Grace being a few steps in advance, he addressed her, +asking if she had seen the fox. + +“Yes,” said she. “We saw him some time ago—just out there.” + +“Did you cry Halloo?” + +“We said nothing.” + +“Then why the d—— didn’t you, or get the old buffer to do it for you?” +said the man, as he cantered away. + +She looked rather disconcerted at this reply, and observing her +father’s face, saw that it was quite red. + +“He ought not to have spoken to ye like that!” said the old man, in the +tone of one whose heart was bruised, though it was not by the epithet +applied to himself. “And he wouldn’t if he had been a gentleman. ’Twas +not the language to use to a woman of any niceness. You, so well read +and cultivated—how could he expect ye to know what tom-boy field-folk +are in the habit of doing? If so be you had just come from trimming +swedes or mangolds—joking with the rough work-folk and all that—I could +have stood it. But hasn’t it cost me near a hundred a year to lift you +out of all that, so as to show an example to the neighborhood of what a +woman can be? Grace, shall I tell you the secret of it? ’Twas because I +was in your company. If a black-coated squire or pa’son had been +walking with you instead of me he wouldn’t have spoken so.” + +“No, no, father; there’s nothing in you rough or ill-mannered!” + +“I tell you it is that! I’ve noticed, and I’ve noticed it many times, +that a woman takes her color from the man she’s walking with. The woman +who looks an unquestionable lady when she’s with a polished-up fellow, +looks a mere tawdry imitation article when she’s hobbing and nobbing +with a homely blade. You sha’n’t be treated like that for long, or at +least your children sha’n’t. You shall have somebody to walk with you +who looks more of a dandy than I—please God you shall!” + +“But, my dear father,” she said, much distressed, “I don’t mind at all. +I don’t wish for more honor than I already have!” + +“A perplexing and ticklish possession is a daughter,” according to +Menander or some old Greek poet, and to nobody was one ever more so +than to Melbury, by reason of her very dearness to him. As for Grace, +she began to feel troubled; she did not perhaps wish there and then to +unambitiously devote her life to Giles Winterborne, but she was +conscious of more and more uneasiness at the possibility of being the +social hope of the family. + +“You would like to have more honor, if it pleases me?” asked her +father, in continuation of the subject. + +Despite her feeling she assented to this. His reasoning had not been +without its weight upon her. + +“Grace,” he said, just before they had reached the house, “if it costs +me my life you shall marry well! To-day has shown me that whatever a +young woman’s niceness, she stands for nothing alone. You shall marry +well.” + +He breathed heavily, and his breathing was caught up by the breeze, +which seemed to sigh a soft remonstrance. + +She looked calmly at him. “And how about Mr. Winterborne?” she asked. +“I mention it, father, not as a matter of sentiment, but as a question +of keeping faith.” + +The timber-merchant’s eyes fell for a moment. “I don’t know—I don’t +know,” he said. “’Tis a trying strait. Well, well; there’s no hurry. +We’ll wait and see how he gets on.” + +That evening he called her into his room, a snug little apartment +behind the large parlor. It had at one time been part of the bakehouse, +with the ordinary oval brick oven in the wall; but Mr. Melbury, in +turning it into an office, had built into the cavity an iron safe, +which he used for holding his private papers. The door of the safe was +now open, and his keys were hanging from it. + +“Sit down, Grace, and keep me company,” he said. “You may amuse +yourself by looking over these.” He threw out a heap of papers before +her. + +“What are they?” she asked. + +“Securities of various sorts.” He unfolded them one by one. “Papers +worth so much money each. Now here’s a lot of turnpike bonds for one +thing. Would you think that each of these pieces of paper is worth two +hundred pounds?” + +“No, indeed, if you didn’t say so.” + +“’Tis so, then. Now here are papers of another sort. They are for +different sums in the three-per-cents. Now these are Port Breedy Harbor +bonds. We have a great stake in that harbor, you know, because I send +off timber there. Open the rest at your pleasure. They’ll interest ye.” + +“Yes, I will, some day,” said she, rising. + +“Nonsense, open them now. You ought to learn a little of such matters. +A young lady of education should not be ignorant of money affairs +altogether. Suppose you should be left a widow some day, with your +husband’s title-deeds and investments thrown upon your hands—” + +“Don’t say that, father—title-deeds; it sounds so vain!” + +“It does not. Come to that, I have title-deeds myself. There, that +piece of parchment represents houses in Sherton Abbas.” + +“Yes, but—” She hesitated, looked at the fire, and went on in a low +voice: “If what has been arranged about me should come to anything, my +sphere will be quite a middling one.” + +“Your sphere ought not to be middling,” he exclaimed, not in passion, +but in earnest conviction. “You said you never felt more at home, more +in your element, anywhere than you did that afternoon with Mrs. +Charmond, when she showed you her house and all her knick-knacks, and +made you stay to tea so nicely in her drawing-room—surely you did!” + +“Yes, I did say so,” admitted Grace. + +“Was it true?” + +“Yes, I felt so at the time. The feeling is less strong now, perhaps.” + +“Ah! Now, though you don’t see it, your feeling at the time was the +right one, because your mind and body were just in full and fresh +cultivation, so that going there with her was like meeting like. Since +then you’ve been biding with us, and have fallen back a little, and so +you don’t feel your place so strongly. Now, do as I tell ye, and look +over these papers and see what you’ll be worth some day. For they’ll +all be yours, you know; who have I got to leave ’em to but you? Perhaps +when your education is backed up by what these papers represent, and +that backed up by another such a set and their owner, men such as that +fellow was this morning may think you a little more than a buffer’s +girl.” + +So she did as commanded, and opened each of the folded representatives +of hard cash that her father put before her. To sow in her heart +cravings for social position was obviously his strong desire, though in +direct antagonism to a better feeling which had hitherto prevailed with +him, and had, indeed, only succumbed that morning during the ramble. + +She wished that she was not his worldly hope; the responsibility of +such a position was too great. She had made it for herself mainly by +her appearance and attractive behavior to him since her return. “If I +had only come home in a shabby dress, and tried to speak roughly, this +might not have happened,” she thought. She deplored less the fact than +the sad possibilities that might lie hidden therein. + +Her father then insisted upon her looking over his checkbook and +reading the counterfoils. This, also, she obediently did, and at last +came to two or three which had been drawn to defray some of the late +expenses of her clothes, board, and education. + +“I, too, cost a good deal, like the horses and wagons and corn,” she +said, looking up sorrily. + +“I didn’t want you to look at those; I merely meant to give you an idea +of my investment transactions. But if you do cost as much as they, +never mind. You’ll yield a better return.” + +“Don’t think of me like that!” she begged. “A mere chattel.” + +“A what? Oh, a dictionary word. Well, as that’s in your line I don’t +forbid it, even if it tells against me,” he said, good-humoredly. And +he looked her proudly up and down. + +A few minutes later Grammer Oliver came to tell them that supper was +ready, and in giving the information she added, incidentally, “So we +shall soon lose the mistress of Hintock House for some time, I hear, +Maister Melbury. Yes, she’s going off to foreign parts to-morrow, for +the rest of the winter months; and be-chok’d if I don’t wish I could do +the same, for my wynd-pipe is furred like a flue.” + +When the old woman had left the room, Melbury turned to his daughter +and said, “So, Grace, you’ve lost your new friend, and your chance of +keeping her company and writing her travels is quite gone from ye!” + +Grace said nothing. + +“Now,” he went on, emphatically, “’tis Winterborne’s affair has done +this. Oh yes, ’tis. So let me say one word. Promise me that you will +not meet him again without my knowledge.” + +“I never do meet him, father, either without your knowledge or with +it.” + +“So much the better. I don’t like the look of this at all. And I say it +not out of harshness to him, poor fellow, but out of tenderness to you. +For how could a woman, brought up delicately as you have been, bear the +roughness of a life with him?” + +She sighed; it was a sigh of sympathy with Giles, complicated by a +sense of the intractability of circumstances. + +At that same hour, and almost at that same minute, there was a +conversation about Winterborne in progress in the village street, +opposite Mr. Melbury’s gates, where Timothy Tangs the elder and Robert +Creedle had accidentally met. + +The sawyer was asking Creedle if he had heard what was all over the +parish, the skin of his face being drawn two ways on the matter—towards +brightness in respect of it as news, and towards concern in respect of +it as circumstance. + +“Why, that poor little lonesome thing, Marty South, is likely to lose +her father. He was almost well, but is much worse again. A man all skin +and grief he ever were, and if he leave Little Hintock for a better +land, won’t it make some difference to your Maister Winterborne, +neighbor Creedle?” + +“Can I be a prophet in Israel?” said Creedle. “Won’t it! I was only +shaping of such a thing yesterday in my poor, long-seeing way, and all +the work of the house upon my one shoulders! You know what it means? It +is upon John South’s life that all Mr. Winterborne’s houses hang. If so +be South die, and so make his decease, thereupon the law is that the +houses fall without the least chance of absolution into HER hands at +the House. I told him so; but the words of the faithful be only as +wind!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +The news was true. The life—the one fragile life—that had been used as +a measuring-tape of time by law, was in danger of being frayed away. It +was the last of a group of lives which had served this purpose, at the +end of whose breathings the small homestead occupied by South himself, +the larger one of Giles Winterborne, and half a dozen others that had +been in the possession of various Hintock village families for the +previous hundred years, and were now Winterborne’s, would fall in and +become part of the encompassing estate. + +Yet a short two months earlier Marty’s father, aged fifty-five years, +though something of a fidgety, anxious being, would have been looked on +as a man whose existence was so far removed from hazardous as any in +the parish, and as bidding fair to be prolonged for another quarter of +a century. + +Winterborne walked up and down his garden next day thinking of the +contingency. The sense that the paths he was pacing, the cabbage-plots, +the apple-trees, his dwelling, cider-cellar, wring-house, stables, and +weathercock, were all slipping away over his head and beneath his feet, +as if they were painted on a magic-lantern slide, was curious. In spite +of John South’s late indisposition he had not anticipated danger. To +inquire concerning his health had been to show less sympathy than to +remain silent, considering the material interest he possessed in the +woodman’s life, and he had, accordingly, made a point of avoiding +Marty’s house. + +While he was here in the garden somebody came to fetch him. It was +Marty herself, and she showed her distress by her unconsciousness of a +cropped poll. + +“Father is still so much troubled in his mind about that tree,” she +said. “You know the tree I mean, Mr. Winterborne? the tall one in front +of the house, that he thinks will blow down and kill us. Can you come +and see if you can persuade him out of his notion? I can do nothing.” + +He accompanied her to the cottage, and she conducted him upstairs. John +South was pillowed up in a chair between the bed and the window exactly +opposite the latter, towards which his face was turned. + +“Ah, neighbor Winterborne,” he said. “I wouldn’t have minded if my life +had only been my own to lose; I don’t vallie it in much of itself, and +can let it go if ’tis required of me. But to think what ’tis worth to +you, a young man rising in life, that do trouble me! It seems a trick +of dishonesty towards ye to go off at fifty-five! I could bear up, I +know I could, if it were not for the tree—yes, the tree, ’tis that’s +killing me. There he stands, threatening my life every minute that the +wind do blow. He’ll come down upon us and squat us dead; and what will +ye do when the life on your property is taken away?” + +“Never you mind me—that’s of no consequence,” said Giles. “Think of +yourself alone.” + +He looked out of the window in the direction of the woodman’s gaze. The +tree was a tall elm, familiar to him from childhood, which stood at a +distance of two-thirds its own height from the front of South’s +dwelling. Whenever the wind blew, as it did now, the tree rocked, +naturally enough; and the sight of its motion and sound of its sighs +had gradually bred the terrifying illusion in the woodman’s mind that +it would descend and kill him. Thus he would sit all day, in spite of +persuasion, watching its every sway, and listening to the melancholy +Gregorian melodies which the air wrung out of it. This fear it +apparently was, rather than any organic disease which was eating away +the health of John South. + +As the tree waved, South waved his head, making it his flugel-man with +abject obedience. “Ah, when it was quite a small tree,” he said, “and I +was a little boy, I thought one day of chopping it off with my hook to +make a clothes-line prop with. But I put off doing it, and then I again +thought that I would; but I forgot it, and didn’t. And at last it got +too big, and now ’tis my enemy, and will be the death o’ me. Little did +I think, when I let that sapling stay, that a time would come when it +would torment me, and dash me into my grave.” + +“No, no,” said Winterborne and Marty, soothingly. But they thought it +possible that it might hasten him into his grave, though in another way +than by falling. + +“I tell you what,” added Winterborne, “I’ll climb up this afternoon and +shroud off the lower boughs, and then it won’t be so heavy, and the +wind won’t affect it so.” + +“She won’t allow it—a strange woman come from nobody knows where—she +won’t have it done.” + +“You mean Mrs. Charmond? Oh, she doesn’t know there’s such a tree on +her estate. Besides, shrouding is not felling, and I’ll risk that +much.” + +He went out, and when afternoon came he returned, took a billhook from +the woodman’s shed, and with a ladder climbed into the lower part of +the tree, where he began lopping off—“shrouding,” as they called it at +Hintock—the lowest boughs. Each of these quivered under his attack, +bent, cracked, and fell into the hedge. Having cut away the lowest +tier, he stepped off the ladder, climbed a few steps higher, and +attacked those at the next level. Thus he ascended with the progress of +his work far above the top of the ladder, cutting away his perches as +he went, and leaving nothing but a bare stem below him. + +The work was troublesome, for the tree was large. The afternoon wore +on, turning dark and misty about four o’clock. From time to time Giles +cast his eyes across towards the bedroom window of South, where, by the +flickering fire in the chamber, he could see the old man watching him, +sitting motionless with a hand upon each arm of the chair. Beside him +sat Marty, also straining her eyes towards the skyey field of his +operations. + +A curious question suddenly occurred to Winterborne, and he stopped his +chopping. He was operating on another person’s property to prolong the +years of a lease by whose termination that person would considerably +benefit. In that aspect of the case he doubted if he ought to go on. On +the other hand he was working to save a man’s life, and this seemed to +empower him to adopt arbitrary measures. + +The wind had died down to a calm, and while he was weighing the +circumstances he saw coming along the road through the increasing mist +a figure which, indistinct as it was, he knew well. It was Grace +Melbury, on her way out from the house, probably for a short evening +walk before dark. He arranged himself for a greeting from her, since +she could hardly avoid passing immediately beneath the tree. + +But Grace, though she looked up and saw him, was just at that time too +full of the words of her father to give him any encouragement. The +years-long regard that she had had for him was not kindled by her +return into a flame of sufficient brilliancy to make her rebellious. +Thinking that she might not see him, he cried, “Miss Melbury, here I +am.” + +She looked up again. She was near enough to see the expression of his +face, and the nails in his soles, silver-bright with constant walking. +But she did not reply; and dropping her glance again, went on. + +Winterborne’s face grew strange; he mused, and proceeded automatically +with his work. Grace meanwhile had not gone far. She had reached a +gate, whereon she had leaned sadly, and whispered to herself, “What +shall I do?” + +A sudden fog came on, and she curtailed her walk, passing under the +tree again on her return. Again he addressed her. “Grace,” he said, +when she was close to the trunk, “speak to me.” She shook her head +without stopping, and went on to a little distance, where she stood +observing him from behind the hedge. + +Her coldness had been kindly meant. If it was to be done, she had said +to herself, it should be begun at once. While she stood out of +observation Giles seemed to recognize her meaning; with a sudden start +he worked on, climbing higher, and cutting himself off more and more +from all intercourse with the sublunary world. At last he had worked +himself so high up the elm, and the mist had so thickened, that he +could only just be discerned as a dark-gray spot on the light-gray sky: +he would have been altogether out of notice but for the stroke of his +billhook and the flight of a bough downward, and its crash upon the +hedge at intervals. + +It was not to be done thus, after all: plainness and candor were best. +She went back a third time; he did not see her now, and she lingeringly +gazed up at his unconscious figure, loath to put an end to any kind of +hope that might live on in him still. “Giles— Mr. Winterborne,” she +said. + +He was so high amid the fog that he did not hear. “Mr. Winterborne!” +she cried again, and this time he stopped, looked down, and replied. + +“My silence just now was not accident,” she said, in an unequal voice. +“My father says it is best not to think too much of that—engagement, or +understanding between us, that you know of. I, too, think that upon the +whole he is right. But we are friends, you know, Giles, and almost +relations.” + +“Very well,” he answered, as if without surprise, in a voice which +barely reached down the tree. “I have nothing to say in objection—I +cannot say anything till I’ve thought a while.” + +She added, with emotion in her tone, “For myself, I would have married +you—some day—I think. But I give way, for I see it would be unwise.” + +He made no reply, but sat back upon a bough, placed his elbow in a +fork, and rested his head upon his hand. Thus he remained till the fog +and the night had completely enclosed him from her view. + +Grace heaved a divided sigh, with a tense pause between, and moved +onward, her heart feeling uncomfortably big and heavy, and her eyes +wet. Had Giles, instead of remaining still, immediately come down from +the tree to her, would she have continued in that filial acquiescent +frame of mind which she had announced to him as final? If it be true, +as women themselves have declared, that one of their sex is never so +much inclined to throw in her lot with a man for good and all as five +minutes after she has told him such a thing cannot be, the +probabilities are that something might have been done by the appearance +of Winterborne on the ground beside Grace. But he continued motionless +and silent in that gloomy Niflheim or fog-land which involved him, and +she proceeded on her way. + +The spot seemed now to be quite deserted. The light from South’s window +made rays on the fog, but did not reach the tree. A quarter of an hour +passed, and all was blackness overhead. Giles had not yet come down. + +Then the tree seemed to shiver, then to heave a sigh; a movement was +audible, and Winterborne dropped almost noiselessly to the ground. He +had thought the matter out, and having returned the ladder and billhook +to their places, pursued his way homeward. He would not allow this +incident to affect his outer conduct any more than the danger to his +leaseholds had done, and went to bed as usual. Two simultaneous +troubles do not always make a double trouble; and thus it came to pass +that Giles’s practical anxiety about his houses, which would have been +enough to keep him awake half the night at any other time, was +displaced and not reinforced by his sentimental trouble about Grace +Melbury. This severance was in truth more like a burial of her than a +rupture with her; but he did not realize so much at present; even when +he arose in the morning he felt quite moody and stern: as yet the +second note in the gamut of such emotions, a tender regret for his +loss, had not made itself heard. + +A load of oak timber was to be sent away that morning to a builder +whose works were in a town many miles off. The proud trunks were taken +up from the silent spot which had known them through the buddings and +sheddings of their growth for the foregoing hundred years; chained down +like slaves to a heavy timber carriage with enormous red wheels, and +four of the most powerful of Melbury’s horses were harnessed in front +to draw them. + +The horses wore their bells that day. There were sixteen to the team, +carried on a frame above each animal’s shoulders, and tuned to scale, +so as to form two octaves, running from the highest note on the right +or off-side of the leader to the lowest on the left or near-side of the +shaft-horse. Melbury was among the last to retain horse-bells in that +neighborhood; for, living at Little Hintock, where the lanes yet +remained as narrow as before the days of turnpike roads, these +sound-signals were still as useful to him and his neighbors as they had +ever been in former times. Much backing was saved in the course of a +year by the warning notes they cast ahead; moreover, the tones of all +the teams in the district being known to the carters of each, they +could tell a long way off on a dark night whether they were about to +encounter friends or strangers. + +The fog of the previous evening still lingered so heavily over the +woods that the morning could not penetrate the trees till long after +its time. The load being a ponderous one, the lane crooked, and the air +so thick, Winterborne set out, as he often did, to accompany the team +as far as the corner, where it would turn into a wider road. + +So they rumbled on, shaking the foundations of the roadside cottages by +the weight of their progress, the sixteen bells chiming harmoniously +over all, till they had risen out of the valley and were descending +towards the more open route, the sparks rising from their creaking skid +and nearly setting fire to the dead leaves alongside. + +Then occurred one of the very incidents against which the bells were an +endeavor to guard. Suddenly there beamed into their eyes, quite close +to them, the two lamps of a carriage, shorn of rays by the fog. Its +approach had been quite unheard, by reason of their own noise. The +carriage was a covered one, while behind it could be discerned another +vehicle laden with luggage. + +Winterborne went to the head of the team, and heard the coachman +telling the carter that he must turn back. The carter declared that +this was impossible. + +“You can turn if you unhitch your string-horses,” said the coachman. + +“It is much easier for you to turn than for us,” said Winterborne. +“We’ve five tons of timber on these wheels if we’ve an ounce.” + +“But I’ve another carriage with luggage at my back.” + +Winterborne admitted the strength of the argument. “But even with +that,” he said, “you can back better than we. And you ought to, for you +could hear our bells half a mile off.” + +“And you could see our lights.” + +“We couldn’t, because of the fog.” + +“Well, our time’s precious,” said the coachman, haughtily. “You are +only going to some trumpery little village or other in the +neighborhood, while we are going straight to Italy.” + +“Driving all the way, I suppose,” said Winterborne, sarcastically. + +The argument continued in these terms till a voice from the interior of +the carriage inquired what was the matter. It was a lady’s. + +She was briefly informed of the timber people’s obstinacy; and then +Giles could hear her telling the footman to direct the timber people to +turn their horses’ heads. + +The message was brought, and Winterborne sent the bearer back to say +that he begged the lady’s pardon, but that he could not do as she +requested; that though he would not assert it to be impossible, it was +impossible by comparison with the slight difficulty to her party to +back their light carriages. As fate would have it, the incident with +Grace Melbury on the previous day made Giles less gentle than he might +otherwise have shown himself, his confidence in the sex being rudely +shaken. + +In fine, nothing could move him, and the carriages were compelled to +back till they reached one of the sidings or turnouts constructed in +the bank for the purpose. Then the team came on ponderously, and the +clanging of its sixteen bells as it passed the discomfited carriages, +tilted up against the bank, lent a particularly triumphant tone to the +team’s progress—a tone which, in point of fact, did not at all attach +to its conductor’s feelings. + +Giles walked behind the timber, and just as he had got past the yet +stationary carriages he heard a soft voice say, “Who is that rude man? +Not Melbury?” The sex of the speaker was so prominent in the voice that +Winterborne felt a pang of regret. + +“No, ma’am. A younger man, in a smaller way of business in Little +Hintock. Winterborne is his name.” + +Thus they parted company. “Why, Mr. Winterborne,” said the wagoner, +when they were out of hearing, “that was She—Mrs. Charmond! Who’d ha’ +thought it? What in the world can a woman that does nothing be +cock-watching out here at this time o’ day for? Oh, going to Italy—yes +to be sure, I heard she was going abroad, she can’t endure the winter +here.” + +Winterborne was vexed at the incident; the more so that he knew Mr. +Melbury, in his adoration of Hintock House, would be the first to blame +him if it became known. But saying no more, he accompanied the load to +the end of the lane, and then turned back with an intention to call at +South’s to learn the result of the experiment of the preceding evening. + +It chanced that a few minutes before this time Grace Melbury, who now +rose soon enough to breakfast with her father, in spite of the +unwontedness of the hour, had been commissioned by him to make the same +inquiry at South’s. Marty had been standing at the door when Miss +Melbury arrived. Almost before the latter had spoken, Mrs. Charmond’s +carriages, released from the obstruction up the lane, came bowling +along, and the two girls turned to regard the spectacle. + +Mrs. Charmond did not see them, but there was sufficient light for them +to discern her outline between the carriage windows. A noticeable +feature in her _tournure_ was a magnificent mass of braided locks. + +“How well she looks this morning!” said Grace, forgetting Mrs. +Charmond’s slight in her generous admiration. “Her hair so becomes her +worn that way. I have never seen any more beautiful!” + +“Nor have I, miss,” said Marty, dryly, unconsciously stroking her +crown. + +Grace watched the carriages with lingering regret till they were out of +sight. She then learned of Marty that South was no better. Before she +had come away Winterborne approached the house, but seeing that one of +the two girls standing on the door-step was Grace, he suddenly turned +back again and sought the shelter of his own home till she should have +gone away. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +The encounter with the carriages having sprung upon Winterborne’s mind +the image of Mrs. Charmond, his thoughts by a natural channel went from +her to the fact that several cottages and other houses in the two +Hintocks, now his own, would fall into her possession in the event of +South’s death. He marvelled what people could have been thinking about +in the past to invent such precarious tenures as these; still more, +what could have induced his ancestors at Hintock, and other village +people, to exchange their old copyholds for life-leases. But having +naturally succeeded to these properties through his father, he had done +his best to keep them in order, though he was much struck with his +father’s negligence in not insuring South’s life. + +After breakfast, still musing on the circumstances, he went upstairs, +turned over his bed, and drew out a flat canvas bag which lay between +the mattress and the sacking. In this he kept his leases, which had +remained there unopened ever since his father’s death. It was the usual +hiding-place among rural lifeholders for such documents. Winterborne +sat down on the bed and looked them over. They were ordinary leases for +three lives, which a member of the South family, some fifty years +before this time, had accepted of the lord of the manor in lieu of +certain copyholds and other rights, in consideration of having the +dilapidated houses rebuilt by said lord. They had come into his +father’s possession chiefly through his mother, who was a South. + +Pinned to the parchment of one of the indentures was a letter, which +Winterborne had never seen before. It bore a remote date, the +handwriting being that of some solicitor or agent, and the signature +the landholder’s. It was to the effect that at any time before the last +of the stated lives should drop, Mr. Giles Winterborne, senior, or his +representative, should have the privilege of adding his own and his +son’s life to the life remaining on payment of a merely nominal sum; +the concession being in consequence of the elder Winterborne’s consent +to demolish one of the houses and relinquish its site, which stood at +an awkward corner of the lane and impeded the way. + +The house had been pulled down years before. Why Giles’s father had not +taken advantage of his privilege to insert his own and his son’s lives +it was impossible to say. The likelihood was that death alone had +hindered him in the execution of his project, as it surely was, the +elder Winterborne having been a man who took much pleasure in dealing +with house property in his small way. + +Since one of the Souths still survived, there was not much doubt that +Giles could do what his father had left undone, as far as his own life +was concerned. This possibility cheered him much, for by those houses +hung many things. Melbury’s doubt of the young man’s fitness to be the +husband of Grace had been based not a little on the precariousness of +his holdings in Little and Great Hintock. He resolved to attend to the +business at once, the fine for renewal being a sum that he could easily +muster. His scheme, however, could not be carried out in a day; and +meanwhile he would run up to South’s, as he had intended to do, to +learn the result of the experiment with the tree. + +Marty met him at the door. “Well, Marty,” he said; and was surprised to +read in her face that the case was not so hopeful as he had imagined. + +“I am sorry for your labor,” she said. “It is all lost. He says the +tree seems taller than ever.” + +Winterborne looked round at it. Taller the tree certainly did seem, the +gauntness of its now naked stem being more marked than before. + +“It quite terrified him when he first saw what you had done to it this +morning,” she added. “He declares it will come down upon us and cleave +us, like ‘the sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’” + +“Well; can I do anything else?” asked he. + +“The doctor says the tree ought to be cut down.” + +“Oh—you’ve had the doctor?” + +“I didn’t send for him. Mrs. Charmond, before she left, heard that +father was ill, and told him to attend him at her expense.” + +“That was very good of her. And he says it ought to be cut down. We +mustn’t cut it down without her knowledge, I suppose.” + +He went up-stairs. There the old man sat, staring at the now gaunt tree +as if his gaze were frozen on to its trunk. Unluckily the tree waved +afresh by this time, a wind having sprung up and blown the fog away, +and his eyes turned with its wavings. + +They heard footsteps—a man’s, but of a lighter type than usual. “There +is Doctor Fitzpiers again,” she said, and descended. Presently his +tread was heard on the naked stairs. + +Mr. Fitzpiers entered the sick-chamber just as a doctor is more or less +wont to do on such occasions, and pre-eminently when the room is that +of a humble cottager, looking round towards the patient with that +preoccupied gaze which so plainly reveals that he has wellnigh +forgotten all about the case and the whole circumstances since he +dismissed them from his mind at his last exit from the same apartment. +He nodded to Winterborne, with whom he was already a little acquainted, +recalled the case to his thoughts, and went leisurely on to where South +sat. + +Fitzpiers was, on the whole, a finely formed, handsome man. His eyes +were dark and impressive, and beamed with the light either of energy or +of susceptivity—it was difficult to say which; it might have been a +little of both. That quick, glittering, practical eye, sharp for the +surface of things and for nothing beneath it, he had not. But whether +his apparent depth of vision was real, or only an artistic accident of +his corporeal moulding, nothing but his deeds could reveal. + +His face was rather soft than stern, charming than grand, pale than +flushed; his nose—if a sketch of his features be _de rigueur_ for a +person of his pretensions—was artistically beautiful enough to have +been worth doing in marble by any sculptor not over-busy, and was hence +devoid of those knotty irregularities which often mean power; while the +double-cyma or classical curve of his mouth was not without a looseness +in its close. Nevertheless, either from his readily appreciative mien, +or his reflective manner, or the instinct towards profound things which +was said to possess him, his presence bespoke the philosopher rather +than the dandy or macaroni—an effect which was helped by the absence of +trinkets or other trivialities from his attire, though this was more +finished and up to date than is usually the case among rural +practitioners. + +Strict people of the highly respectable class, knowing a little about +him by report, might have said that he seemed likely to err rather in +the possession of too many ideas than too few; to be a dreamy ’ist of +some sort, or too deeply steeped in some false kind of ’ism. However +this may be, it will be seen that he was undoubtedly a somewhat rare +kind of gentleman and doctor to have descended, as from the clouds, +upon Little Hintock. + +“This is an extraordinary case,” he said at last to Winterborne, after +examining South by conversation, look, and touch, and learning that the +craze about the elm was stronger than ever. “Come down-stairs, and I’ll +tell you what I think.” + +They accordingly descended, and the doctor continued, “The tree must be +cut down, or I won’t answer for his life.” + +“’Tis Mrs. Charmond’s tree, and I suppose we must get permission?” said +Giles. “If so, as she is gone away, I must speak to her agent.” + +“Oh—never mind whose tree it is—what’s a tree beside a life! Cut it +down. I have not the honor of knowing Mrs. Charmond as yet, but I am +disposed to risk that much with her.” + +“’Tis timber,” rejoined Giles, more scrupulous than he would have been +had not his own interests stood so closely involved. “They’ll never +fell a stick about here without it being marked first, either by her or +the agent.” + +“Then we’ll inaugurate a new era forthwith. How long has he complained +of the tree?” asked the doctor of Marty. + +“Weeks and weeks, sir. The shape of it seems to haunt him like an evil +spirit. He says that it is exactly his own age, that it has got human +sense, and sprouted up when he was born on purpose to rule him, and +keep him as its slave. Others have been like it afore in Hintock.” + +They could hear South’s voice up-stairs “Oh, he’s rocking this way; he +must come! And then my poor life, that’s worth houses upon houses, will +be squashed out o’ me. Oh! oh!” + +“That’s how he goes on,” she added. “And he’ll never look anywhere else +but out of the window, and scarcely have the curtains drawn.” + +“Down with it, then, and hang Mrs. Charmond,” said Mr. Fitzpiers. “The +best plan will be to wait till the evening, when it is dark, or early +in the morning before he is awake, so that he doesn’t see it fall, for +that would terrify him worse than ever. Keep the blind down till I +come, and then I’ll assure him, and show him that his trouble is over.” + +The doctor then departed, and they waited till the evening. When it was +dusk, and the curtains drawn, Winterborne directed a couple of woodmen +to bring a crosscut-saw, and the tall, threatening tree was soon nearly +off at its base. He would not fell it completely then, on account of +the possible crash, but next morning, before South was awake, they went +and lowered it cautiously, in a direction away from the cottage. It was +a business difficult to do quite silently; but it was done at last, and +the elm of the same birth-year as the woodman’s lay stretched upon the +ground. The weakest idler that passed could now set foot on marks +formerly made in the upper forks by the shoes of adventurous climbers +only; once inaccessible nests could be examined microscopically; and on +swaying extremities where birds alone had perched, the by-standers sat +down. + +As soon as it was broad daylight the doctor came, and Winterborne +entered the house with him. Marty said that her father was wrapped up +and ready, as usual, to be put into his chair. They ascended the +stairs, and soon seated him. He began at once to complain of the tree, +and the danger to his life and Winterborne’s house-property in +consequence. + +The doctor signalled to Giles, who went and drew back the printed +cotton curtains. “’Tis gone, see,” said Mr. Fitzpiers. + +As soon as the old man saw the vacant patch of sky in place of the +branched column so familiar to his gaze, he sprang up, speechless, his +eyes rose from their hollows till the whites showed all round; he fell +back, and a bluish whiteness overspread him. + +Greatly alarmed, they put him on the bed. As soon as he came a little +out of his fit, he gasped, “Oh, it is gone!—where?—where?” + +His whole system seemed paralyzed by amazement. They were +thunder-struck at the result of the experiment, and did all they could. +Nothing seemed to avail. Giles and Fitzpiers went and came, but +uselessly. He lingered through the day, and died that evening as the +sun went down. + +“D—d if my remedy hasn’t killed him!” murmured the doctor. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +When Melbury heard what had happened he seemed much moved, and walked +thoughtfully about the premises. On South’s own account he was +genuinely sorry; and on Winterborne’s he was the more grieved in that +this catastrophe had so closely followed the somewhat harsh dismissal +of Giles as the betrothed of his daughter. + +He was quite angry with circumstances for so heedlessly inflicting on +Giles a second trouble when the needful one inflicted by himself was +all that the proper order of events demanded. “I told Giles’s father +when he came into those houses not to spend too much money on lifehold +property held neither for his own life nor his son’s,” he exclaimed. +“But he wouldn’t listen to me. And now Giles has to suffer for it.” + +“Poor Giles!” murmured Grace. + +“Now, Grace, between us two, it is very, very remarkable. It is almost +as if I had foreseen this; and I am thankful for your escape, though I +am sincerely sorry for Giles. Had we not dismissed him already, we +could hardly have found it in our hearts to dismiss him now. So I say, +be thankful. I’ll do all I can for him as a friend; but as a pretender +to the position of my son-in law, that can never be thought of more.” + +And yet at that very moment the impracticability to which poor +Winterborne’s suit had been reduced was touching Grace’s heart to a +warmer sentiment on his behalf than she had felt for years concerning +him. + +He, meanwhile, was sitting down alone in the old familiar house which +had ceased to be his, taking a calm if somewhat dismal survey of +affairs. The pendulum of the clock bumped every now and then against +one side of the case in which it swung, as the muffled drum to his +worldly march. Looking out of the window he could perceive that a +paralysis had come over Creedle’s occupation of manuring the garden, +owing, obviously, to a conviction that they might not be living there +long enough to profit by next season’s crop. + +He looked at the leases again and the letter attached. There was no +doubt that he had lost his houses by an accident which might easily +have been circumvented if he had known the true conditions of his +holding. The time for performance had now lapsed in strict law; but +might not the intention be considered by the landholder when she became +aware of the circumstances, and his moral right to retain the holdings +for the term of his life be conceded? + +His heart sank within him when he perceived that despite all the legal +reciprocities and safeguards prepared and written, the upshot of the +matter amounted to this, that it depended upon the mere caprice—good or +ill—of the woman he had met the day before in such an unfortunate way, +whether he was to possess his houses for life or no. + +While he was sitting and thinking a step came to the door, and Melbury +appeared, looking very sorry for his position. Winterborne welcomed him +by a word and a look, and went on with his examination of the +parchments. His visitor sat down. + +“Giles,” he said, “this is very awkward, and I am sorry for it. What +are you going to do?” + +Giles informed him of the real state of affairs, and how barely he had +missed availing himself of his chance of renewal. + +“What a misfortune! Why was this neglected? Well, the best thing you +can do is to write and tell her all about it, and throw yourself upon +her generosity.” + +“I would rather not,” murmured Giles. + +“But you must,” said Melbury. + +In short, he argued so cogently that Giles allowed himself to be +persuaded, and the letter to Mrs. Charmond was written and sent to +Hintock House, whence, as he knew, it would at once be forwarded to +her. + +Melbury feeling that he had done so good an action in coming as almost +to extenuate his previous arbitrary conduct to nothing, went home; and +Giles was left alone to the suspense of waiting for a reply from the +divinity who shaped the ends of the Hintock population. By this time +all the villagers knew of the circumstances, and being wellnigh like +one family, a keen interest was the result all round. + +Everybody thought of Giles; nobody thought of Marty. Had any of them +looked in upon her during those moonlight nights which preceded the +burial of her father, they would have seen the girl absolutely alone in +the house with the dead man. Her own chamber being nearest the stairs, +the coffin had been placed there for convenience; and at a certain hour +of the night, when the moon arrived opposite the window, its beams +streamed across the still profile of South, sublimed by the august +presence of death, and onward a few feet farther upon the face of his +daughter, lying in her little bed in the stillness of a repose almost +as dignified as that of her companion—the repose of a guileless soul +that had nothing more left on earth to lose, except a life which she +did not overvalue. + +South was buried, and a week passed, and Winterborne watched for a +reply from Mrs. Charmond. Melbury was very sanguine as to its tenor; +but Winterborne had not told him of the encounter with her carriage, +when, if ever he had heard an affronted tone on a woman’s lips, he had +heard it on hers. + +The postman’s time for passing was just after Melbury’s men had +assembled in the spar-house; and Winterborne, who when not busy on his +own account would lend assistance there, used to go out into the lane +every morning and meet the post-man at the end of one of the green +rides through the hazel copse, in the straight stretch of which his +laden figure could be seen a long way off. Grace also was very anxious; +more anxious than her father; more, perhaps, than Winterborne himself. +This anxiety led her into the spar-house on some pretext or other +almost every morning while they were awaiting the reply. + +Fitzpiers too, though he did not personally appear, was much +interested, and not altogether easy in his mind; for he had been +informed by an authority of what he had himself conjectured, that if +the tree had been allowed to stand, the old man would have gone on +complaining, but might have lived for twenty years. + +Eleven times had Winterborne gone to that corner of the ride, and +looked up its long straight slope through the wet grays of winter dawn. +But though the postman’s bowed figure loomed in view pretty regularly, +he brought nothing for Giles. On the twelfth day the man of missives, +while yet in the extreme distance, held up his hand, and Winterborne +saw a letter in it. He took it into the spar-house before he broke the +seal, and those who were there gathered round him while he read, Grace +looking in at the door. + +The letter was not from Mrs. Charmond herself, but her agent at +Sherton. Winterborne glanced it over and looked up. + +“It’s all over,” he said. + +“Ah!” said they altogether. + +“Her lawyer is instructed to say that Mrs. Charmond sees no reason for +disturbing the natural course of things, particularly as she +contemplates pulling the houses down,” he said, quietly. + +“Only think of that!” said several. + +Winterborne had turned away, and said vehemently to himself, “Then let +her pull ’em down, and be d—d to her!” + +Creedle looked at him with a face of seven sorrows, saying, “Ah, ’twas +that sperrit that lost ’em for ye, maister!” + +Winterborne subdued his feelings, and from that hour, whatever they +were, kept them entirely to himself. There could be no doubt that, up +to this last moment, he had nourished a feeble hope of regaining Grace +in the event of this negotiation turning out a success. Not being aware +of the fact that her father could have settled upon her a fortune +sufficient to enable both to live in comfort, he deemed it now an +absurdity to dream any longer of such a vanity as making her his wife, +and sank into silence forthwith. + +Yet whatever the value of taciturnity to a man among strangers, it is +apt to express more than talkativeness when he dwells among friends. +The countryman who is obliged to judge the time of day from changes in +external nature sees a thousand successive tints and traits in the +landscape which are never discerned by him who hears the regular chime +of a clock, because they are never in request. In like manner do we use +our eyes on our taciturn comrade. The infinitesimal movement of muscle, +curve, hair, and wrinkle, which when accompanied by a voice goes +unregarded, is watched and translated in the lack of it, till virtually +the whole surrounding circle of familiars is charged with the reserved +one’s moods and meanings. + +This was the condition of affairs between Winterborne and his neighbors +after his stroke of ill-luck. He held his tongue; and they observed +him, and knew that he was discomposed. + +Mr. Melbury, in his compunction, thought more of the matter than any +one else, except his daughter. Had Winterborne been going on in the old +fashion, Grace’s father could have alluded to his disapproval of the +alliance every day with the greatest frankness; but to speak any +further on the subject he could not find it in his heart to do now. He +hoped that Giles would of his own accord make some final announcement +that he entirely withdrew his pretensions to Grace, and so get the +thing past and done with. For though Giles had in a measure acquiesced +in the wish of her family, he could make matters unpleasant if he chose +to work upon Grace; and hence, when Melbury saw the young man +approaching along the road one day, he kept friendliness and frigidity +exactly balanced in his eye till he could see whether Giles’s manner +was presumptive or not. + +His manner was that of a man who abandoned all claims. “I am glad to +meet ye, Mr. Melbury,” he said, in a low voice, whose quality he +endeavored to make as practical as possible. “I am afraid I shall not +be able to keep that mare I bought, and as I don’t care to sell her, I +should like—if you don’t object—to give her to Miss Melbury. The horse +is very quiet, and would be quite safe for her.” + +Mr. Melbury was rather affected at this. “You sha’n’t hurt your pocket +like that on our account, Giles. Grace shall have the horse, but I’ll +pay you what you gave for her, and any expense you may have been put to +for her keep.” + +He would not hear of any other terms, and thus it was arranged. They +were now opposite Melbury’s house, and the timber-merchant pressed +Winterborne to enter, Grace being out of the way. + +“Pull round the settle, Giles,” said the timber-merchant, as soon as +they were within. “I should like to have a serious talk with you.” + +Thereupon he put the case to Winterborne frankly, and in quite a +friendly way. He declared that he did not like to be hard on a man when +he was in difficulty; but he really did not see how Winterborne could +marry his daughter now, without even a house to take her to. + +Giles quite acquiesced in the awkwardness of his situation. But from a +momentary feeling that he would like to know Grace’s mind from her own +lips, he did not speak out positively there and then. He accordingly +departed somewhat abruptly, and went home to consider whether he would +seek to bring about a meeting with her. + +In the evening, while he sat quietly pondering, he fancied that he +heard a scraping on the wall outside his house. The boughs of a monthly +rose which grew there made such a noise sometimes, but as no wind was +stirring he knew that it could not be the rose-tree. He took up the +candle and went out. Nobody was near. As he turned, the light flickered +on the whitewashed rough case of the front, and he saw words written +thereon in charcoal, which he read as follows: + +“O Giles, you’ve lost your dwelling-place, +And therefore, Giles, you’ll lose your Grace.” + + +Giles went in-doors. He had his suspicions as to the scrawler of those +lines, but he could not be sure. What suddenly filled his heart far +more than curiosity about their authorship was a terrible belief that +they were turning out to be true, try to see Grace as he might. They +decided the question for him. He sat down and wrote a formal note to +Melbury, in which he briefly stated that he was placed in such a +position as to make him share to the full Melbury’s view of his own and +his daughter’s promise, made some years before; to wish that it should +be considered as cancelled, and they themselves quite released from any +obligation on account of it. + +Having fastened up this their plenary absolution, he determined to get +it out of his hands and have done with it; to which end he went off to +Melbury’s at once. It was now so late that the family had all retired; +he crept up to the house, thrust the note under the door, and stole +away as silently as he had come. + +Melbury himself was the first to rise the next morning, and when he had +read the letter his relief was great. “Very honorable of Giles, very +honorable,” he kept saying to himself. “I shall not forget him. Now to +keep her up to her own true level.” + +It happened that Grace went out for an early ramble that morning, +passing through the door and gate while her father was in the +spar-house. To go in her customary direction she could not avoid +passing Winterborne’s house. The morning sun was shining flat upon its +white surface, and the words, which still remained, were immediately +visible to her. She read them. Her face flushed to crimson. She could +see Giles and Creedle talking together at the back; the charred +spar-gad with which the lines had been written lay on the ground +beneath the wall. Feeling pretty sure that Winterborne would observe +her action, she quickly went up to the wall, rubbed out “lose” and +inserted “keep” in its stead. Then she made the best of her way home +without looking behind her. Giles could draw an inference now if he +chose. + +There could not be the least doubt that gentle Grace was warming to +more sympathy with, and interest in, Giles Winterborne than ever she +had done while he was her promised lover; that since his misfortune +those social shortcomings of his, which contrasted so awkwardly with +her later experiences of life, had become obscured by the generous +revival of an old romantic attachment to him. Though mentally trained +and tilled into foreignness of view, as compared with her youthful +time, Grace was not an ambitious girl, and might, if left to herself, +have declined Winterborne without much discontent or unhappiness. Her +feelings just now were so far from latent that the writing on the wall +had thus quickened her to an unusual rashness. + +Having returned from her walk she sat at breakfast silently. When her +step-mother had left the room she said to her father, “I have made up +my mind that I should like my engagement to Giles to continue, for the +present at any rate, till I can see further what I ought to do.” + +Melbury looked much surprised. + +“Nonsense,” he said, sharply. “You don’t know what you are talking +about. Look here.” + +He handed across to her the letter received from Giles. + +She read it, and said no more. Could he have seen her write on the +wall? She did not know. Fate, it seemed, would have it this way, and +there was nothing to do but to acquiesce. + +It was a few hours after this that Winterborne, who, curiously enough, +had _not_ perceived Grace writing, was clearing away the tree from the +front of South’s late dwelling. He saw Marty standing in her door-way, +a slim figure in meagre black, almost without womanly contours as yet. +He went up to her and said, “Marty, why did you write that on my wall +last night? It _was_ you, you know.” + +“Because it was the truth. I didn’t mean to let it stay, Mr. +Winterborne; but when I was going to rub it out you came, and I was +obliged to run off.” + +“Having prophesied one thing, why did you alter it to another? Your +predictions can’t be worth much.” + +“I have not altered it.” + +“But you have.” + +“No.” + +“It is altered. Go and see.” + +She went, and read that, in spite of losing his dwelling-place, he +would _keep_ his Grace. Marty came back surprised. + +“Well, I never,” she said. “Who can have made such nonsense of it?” + +“Who, indeed?” said he. + +“I have rubbed it all out, as the point of it is quite gone.” + +“You’d no business to rub it out. I didn’t tell you to. I meant to let +it stay a little longer.” + +“Some idle boy did it, no doubt,” she murmured. + +As this seemed very probable, and the actual perpetrator was +unsuspected, Winterborne said no more, and dismissed the matter from +his mind. + +From this day of his life onward for a considerable time, Winterborne, +though not absolutely out of his house as yet, retired into the +background of human life and action thereabout—a feat not particularly +difficult of performance anywhere when the doer has the assistance of a +lost prestige. Grace, thinking that Winterborne saw her write, made no +further sign, and the frail bark of fidelity that she had thus timidly +launched was stranded and lost. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +Dr. Fitzpiers lived on the slope of the hill, in a house of much less +pretension, both as to architecture and as to magnitude, than the +timber-merchant’s. The latter had, without doubt, been once the +manorial residence appertaining to the snug and modest domain of Little +Hintock, of which the boundaries were now lost by its absorption with +others of its kind into the adjoining estate of Mrs. Charmond. Though +the Melburys themselves were unaware of the fact, there was every +reason to believe—at least so the parson said—that the owners of that +little manor had been Melbury’s own ancestors, the family name +occurring in numerous documents relating to transfers of land about the +time of the civil wars. + +Mr. Fitzpiers’s dwelling, on the contrary, was small, cottage-like, and +comparatively modern. It had been occupied, and was in part occupied +still, by a retired farmer and his wife, who, on the surgeon’s arrival +in quest of a home, had accommodated him by receding from their front +rooms into the kitchen quarter, whence they administered to his wants, +and emerged at regular intervals to receive from him a not unwelcome +addition to their income. + +The cottage and its garden were so regular in their arrangement that +they might have been laid out by a Dutch designer of the time of +William and Mary. In a low, dense hedge, cut to wedge-shape, was a door +over which the hedge formed an arch, and from the inside of the door a +straight path, bordered with clipped box, ran up the slope of the +garden to the porch, which was exactly in the middle of the house +front, with two windows on each side. Right and left of the path were +first a bed of gooseberry bushes; next of currant; next of raspberry; +next of strawberry; next of old-fashioned flowers; at the corners +opposite the porch being spheres of box resembling a pair of school +globes. Over the roof of the house could be seen the orchard, on yet +higher ground, and behind the orchard the forest-trees, reaching up to +the crest of the hill. + +Opposite the garden door and visible from the parlor window was a +swing-gate leading into a field, across which there ran a footpath. The +swing-gate had just been repainted, and on one fine afternoon, before +the paint was dry, and while gnats were still dying thereon, the +surgeon was standing in his sitting-room abstractedly looking out at +the different pedestrians who passed and repassed along that route. +Being of a philosophical stamp, he perceived that the character of each +of these travellers exhibited itself in a somewhat amusing manner by +his or her method of handling the gate. + +As regarded the men, there was not much variety: they gave the gate a +kick and passed through. The women were more contrasting. To them the +sticky wood-work was a barricade, a disgust, a menace, a treachery, as +the case might be. + +The first that he noticed was a bouncing woman with her skirts tucked +up and her hair uncombed. She grasped the gate without looking, giving +it a supplementary push with her shoulder, when the white imprint drew +from her an exclamation in language not too refined. She went to the +green bank, sat down and rubbed herself in the grass, cursing the +while. + +“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the doctor. + +The next was a girl, with her hair cropped short, in whom the surgeon +recognized the daughter of his late patient, the woodman South. +Moreover, a black bonnet that she wore by way of mourning unpleasantly +reminded him that he had ordered the felling of a tree which had caused +her parent’s death and Winterborne’s losses. She walked and thought, +and not recklessly; but her preoccupation led her to grasp +unsuspectingly the bar of the gate, and touch it with her arm. +Fitzpiers felt sorry that she should have soiled that new black frock, +poor as it was, for it was probably her only one. She looked at her +hand and arm, seemed but little surprised, wiped off the disfigurement +with an almost unmoved face, and as if without abandoning her original +thoughts. Thus she went on her way. + +Then there came over the green quite a different sort of personage. She +walked as delicately as if she had been bred in town, and as firmly as +if she had been bred in the country; she seemed one who dimly knew her +appearance to be attractive, but who retained some of the charm of +being ignorant of that fact by forgetting it in a general pensiveness. +She approached the gate. To let such a creature touch it even with a +tip of her glove was to Fitzpiers almost like letting her proceed to +tragical self-destruction. He jumped up and looked for his hat, but was +unable to find the right one; glancing again out of the window he saw +that he was too late. Having come up, she stopped, looked at the gate, +picked up a little stick, and using it as a bayonet, pushed open the +obstacle without touching it at all. + +He steadily watched her till she had passed out of sight, recognizing +her as the very young lady whom he had seen once before and been unable +to identify. Whose could that emotional face be? All the others he had +seen in Hintock as yet oppressed him with their crude rusticity; the +contrast offered by this suggested that she hailed from elsewhere. + +Precisely these thoughts had occurred to him at the first time of +seeing her; but he now went a little further with them, and considered +that as there had been no carriage seen or heard lately in that spot +she could not have come a very long distance. She must be somebody +staying at Hintock House? Possibly Mrs. Charmond, of whom he had heard +so much—at any rate an inmate, and this probability was sufficient to +set a mild radiance in the surgeon’s somewhat dull sky. + +Fitzpiers sat down to the book he had been perusing. It happened to be +that of a German metaphysician, for the doctor was not a practical man, +except by fits, and much preferred the ideal world to the real, and the +discovery of principles to their application. The young lady remained +in his thoughts. He might have followed her; but he was not +constitutionally active, and preferred a conjectural pursuit. However, +when he went out for a ramble just before dusk he insensibly took the +direction of Hintock House, which was the way that Grace had been +walking, it having happened that her mind had run on Mrs. Charmond that +day, and she had walked to the brow of a hill whence the house could be +seen, returning by another route. + +Fitzpiers in his turn reached the edge of the glen, overlooking the +manor-house. The shutters were shut, and only one chimney smoked. The +mere aspect of the place was enough to inform him that Mrs. Charmond +had gone away and that nobody else was staying there. Fitzpiers felt a +vague disappointment that the young lady was not Mrs. Charmond, of whom +he had heard so much; and without pausing longer to gaze at a carcass +from which the spirit had flown, he bent his steps homeward. + +Later in the evening Fitzpiers was summoned to visit a cottage patient +about two miles distant. Like the majority of young practitioners in +his position he was far from having assumed the dignity of being driven +his rounds by a servant in a brougham that flashed the sunlight like a +mirror; his way of getting about was by means of a gig which he drove +himself, hitching the rein of the horse to the gate post, shutter hook, +or garden paling of the domicile under visitation, or giving pennies to +little boys to hold the animal during his stay—pennies which were well +earned when the cases to be attended were of a certain cheerful kind +that wore out the patience of the little boys. + +On this account of travelling alone, the night journeys which Fitzpiers +had frequently to take were dismal enough, a serious apparent +perversity in nature ruling that whenever there was to be a birth in a +particularly inaccessible and lonely place, that event should occur in +the night. The surgeon, having been of late years a town man, hated the +solitary midnight woodland. He was not altogether skilful with the +reins, and it often occurred to his mind that if in some remote depths +of the trees an accident were to happen, the fact of his being alone +might be the death of him. Hence he made a practice of picking up any +countryman or lad whom he chanced to pass by, and under the disguise of +treating him to a nice drive, obtained his companionship on the +journey, and his convenient assistance in opening gates. + +The doctor had started on his way out of the village on the night in +question when the light of his lamps fell upon the musing form of +Winterborne, walking leisurely along, as if he had no object in life. +Winterborne was a better class of companion than the doctor usually +could get, and he at once pulled up and asked him if he would like a +drive through the wood that fine night. + +Giles seemed rather surprised at the doctor’s friendliness, but said +that he had no objection, and accordingly mounted beside Mr. Fitzpiers. + +They drove along under the black boughs which formed a network upon the +stars, all the trees of a species alike in one respect, and no two of +them alike in another. Looking up as they passed under a horizontal +bough they sometimes saw objects like large tadpoles lodged +diametrically across it, which Giles explained to be pheasants there at +roost; and they sometimes heard the report of a gun, which reminded him +that others knew what those tadpole shapes represented as well as he. + +Presently the doctor said what he had been going to say for some time: + +“Is there a young lady staying in this neighborhood—a very attractive +girl—with a little white boa round her neck, and white fur round her +gloves?” + +Winterborne of course knew in a moment that Grace, whom he had caught +the doctor peering at, was represented by these accessories. With a +wary grimness, partly in his character, partly induced by the +circumstances, he evaded an answer by saying, “I saw a young lady +talking to Mrs. Charmond the other day; perhaps it was she.” + +Fitzpiers concluded from this that Winterborne had not seen him looking +over the hedge. “It might have been,” he said. “She is quite a +gentlewoman—the one I mean. She cannot be a permanent resident in +Hintock or I should have seen her before. Nor does she look like one.” + +“She is not staying at Hintock House?” + +“No; it is closed.” + +“Then perhaps she is staying at one of the cottages, or farmhouses?” + +“Oh no—you mistake. She was a different sort of girl altogether.” As +Giles was nobody, Fitzpiers treated him accordingly, and apostrophized +the night in continuation: + +“She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, +A power, that from its objects scarcely drew +One impulse of her being—in her lightness +Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, +Which wanders through the waste air’s pathless blue, +To nourish some far desert: she did seem +Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, +Like the bright shade of some immortal dream +Which walks, when tempests sleep, the wave of life’s dark stream.” + + +The consummate charm of the lines seemed to Winterborne, though he +divined that they were a quotation, to be somehow the result of his +lost love’s charms upon Fitzpiers. + +“You seem to be mightily in love with her, sir,” he said, with a +sensation of heart-sickness, and more than ever resolved not to mention +Grace by name. + +“Oh no—I am not that, Winterborne; people living insulated, as I do by +the solitude of this place, get charged with emotive fluid like a +Leyden-jar with electric, for want of some conductor at hand to +disperse it. Human love is a subjective thing—the essence itself of +man, as that great thinker Spinoza the philosopher says—_ipsa hominis +essentia_—it is joy accompanied by an idea which we project against any +suitable object in the line of our vision, just as the rainbow iris is +projected against an oak, ash, or elm tree indifferently. So that if +any other young lady had appeared instead of the one who did appear, I +should have felt just the same interest in her, and have quoted +precisely the same lines from Shelley about her, as about this one I +saw. Such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!” + +“Well, it is what we call being in love down in these parts, whether or +no,” said Winterborne. + +“You are right enough if you admit that I am in love with something in +my own head, and no thing in itself outside it at all.” + +“Is it part of a country doctor’s duties to learn that view of things, +may I ask, sir?” said Winterborne, adopting the Socratic εἰρωνεία with +such well-assumed simplicity that Fitzpiers answered, readily, + +“Oh no. The real truth is, Winterborne, that medical practice in places +like this is a very rule-of-thumb matter; a bottle of bitter stuff for +this and that old woman—the bitterer the better—compounded from a few +simple stereotyped prescriptions; occasional attendance at births, +where mere presence is almost sufficient, so healthy and strong are the +people; and a lance for an abscess now and then. Investigation and +experiment cannot be carried on without more appliances than one has +here—though I have attempted it a little.” + +Giles did not enter into this view of the case; what he had been struck +with was the curious parallelism between Mr. Fitzpiers’s manner and +Grace’s, as shown by the fact of both of them straying into a subject +of discourse so engrossing to themselves that it made them forget it +was foreign to him. + +Nothing further passed between himself and the doctor in relation to +Grace till they were on their way back. They had stopped at a way-side +inn for a glass of brandy and cider hot, and when they were again in +motion, Fitzpiers, possibly a little warmed by the liquor, resumed the +subject by saying, “I should like very much to know who that young lady +was.” + +“What difference can it make, if she’s only the tree your rainbow falls +on?” + +“Ha! ha! True.” + +“You have no wife, sir?” + +“I have no wife, and no idea of one. I hope to do better things than +marry and settle in Hintock. Not but that it is well for a medical man +to be married, and sometimes, begad, ’twould be pleasant enough in this +place, with the wind roaring round the house, and the rain and the +boughs beating against it. I hear that you lost your life-holds by the +death of South?” + +“I did. I lost in more ways than one.” + +They had reached the top of Hintock Lane or Street, if it could be +called such where three-quarters of the road-side consisted of copse +and orchard. One of the first houses to be passed was Melbury’s. A +light was shining from a bedroom window facing lengthwise of the lane. +Winterborne glanced at it, and saw what was coming. He had withheld an +answer to the doctor’s inquiry to hinder his knowledge of Grace; but, +as he thought to himself, “who hath gathered the wind in his fists? who +hath bound the waters in a garment?” he could not hinder what was +doomed to arrive, and might just as well have been outspoken. As they +came up to the house, Grace’s figure was distinctly visible, drawing +the two white curtains together which were used here instead of blinds. + +“Why, there she is!” said Fitzpiers. “How does she come there?” + +“In the most natural way in the world. It is her home. Mr. Melbury is +her father.” + +“Oh, indeed—indeed—indeed! How comes he to have a daughter of that +stamp?” + +Winterborne laughed coldly. “Won’t money do anything,” he said, “if +you’ve promising material to work upon? Why shouldn’t a Hintock girl, +taken early from home, and put under proper instruction, become as +finished as any other young lady, if she’s got brains and good looks to +begin with?” + +“No reason at all why she shouldn’t,” murmured the surgeon, with +reflective disappointment. “Only I didn’t anticipate quite that kind of +origin for her.” + +“And you think an inch or two less of her now.” There was a little +tremor in Winterborne’s voice as he spoke. + +“Well,” said the doctor, with recovered warmth, “I am not so sure that +I think less of her. At first it was a sort of blow; but, dammy! I’ll +stick up for her. She’s charming, every inch of her!” + +“So she is,” said Winterborne, “but not to me.” + +From this ambiguous expression of the reticent woodlander’s, Dr. +Fitzpiers inferred that Giles disliked Miss Melbury because of some +haughtiness in her bearing towards him, and had, on that account, +withheld her name. The supposition did not tend to diminish his +admiration for her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +Grace’s exhibition of herself, in the act of pulling-to the +window-curtains, had been the result of an unfortunate incident in the +house that day—nothing less than the illness of Grammer Oliver, a woman +who had never till now lain down for such a reason in her life. Like +others to whom unbroken years of health has made the idea of keeping +their bed almost as repugnant as death itself, she had continued on +foot till she literally fell on the floor; and though she had, as yet, +been scarcely a day off duty, she had sickened into quite a different +personage from the independent Grammer of the yard and spar-house. Ill +as she was, on one point she was firm. On no account would she see a +doctor; in other words, Fitzpiers. + +The room in which Grace had been discerned was not her own, but the old +woman’s. On the girl’s way to bed she had received a message from +Grammer, to the effect that she would much like to speak to her that +night. + +Grace entered, and set the candle on a low chair beside the bed, so +that the profile of Grammer as she lay cast itself in a keen shadow +upon the whitened wall, her large head being still further magnified by +an enormous turban, which was, really, her petticoat wound in a wreath +round her temples. Grace put the room a little in order, and +approaching the sick woman, said, “I am come, Grammer, as you wish. Do +let us send for the doctor before it gets later.” + +“I will not have him,” said Grammer Oliver, decisively. + +“Then somebody to sit up with you.” + +“Can’t abear it! No; I wanted to see you, Miss Grace, because ’ch have +something on my mind. Dear Miss Grace, _I took that money of the +doctor, after all!_” + +“What money?” + +“The ten pounds.” + +Grace did not quite understand. + +“The ten pounds he offered me for my head, because I’ve a large brain. +I signed a paper when I took the money, not feeling concerned about it +at all. I have not liked to tell ye that it was really settled with +him, because you showed such horror at the notion. Well, having thought +it over more at length, I wish I hadn’t done it; and it weighs upon my +mind. John South’s death of fear about the tree makes me think that I +shall die of this....’Ch have been going to ask him again to let me +off, but I hadn’t the face.” + +“Why?” + +“I’ve spent some of the money—more’n two pounds o’t. It do wherrit me +terribly; and I shall die o’ the thought of that paper I signed with my +holy cross, as South died of his trouble.” + +“If you ask him to burn the paper he will, I’m sure, and think no more +of it.” + +“‘Ch have done it once already, miss. But he laughed cruel like. ‘Yours +is such a fine brain, Grammer,’ ’er said, ‘that science couldn’t afford +to lose you. Besides, you’ve taken my money.’...Don’t let your father +know of this, please, on no account whatever!” + +“No, no. I will let you have the money to return to him.” + +Grammer rolled her head negatively upon the pillow. “Even if I should +be well enough to take it to him, he won’t like it. Though why he +should so particular want to look into the works of a poor old woman’s +head-piece like mine when there’s so many other folks about, I don’t +know. I know how he’ll answer me: ‘A lonely person like you, Grammer,’ +er woll say. ‘What difference is it to you what becomes of ye when the +breath’s out of your body?’ Oh, it do trouble me! If you only knew how +he do chevy me round the chimmer in my dreams, you’d pity me. How I +could do it I can’t think! But ’ch was always so rackless!...If I only +had anybody to plead for me!” + +“Mrs. Melbury would, I am sure.” + +“Ay; but he wouldn’t hearken to she! It wants a younger face than hers +to work upon such as he.” + +Grace started with comprehension. “You don’t think he would do it for +me?” she said. + +“Oh, wouldn’t he!” + +“I couldn’t go to him, Grammer, on any account. I don’t know him at +all.” + +“Ah, if I were a young lady,” said the artful Grammer, “and could save +a poor old woman’s skellington from a heathen doctor instead of a +Christian grave, I would do it, and be glad to. But nobody will do +anything for a poor old familiar friend but push her out of the way.” + +“You are very ungrateful, Grammer, to say that. But you are ill, I +know, and that’s why you speak so. Now believe me, you are not going to +die yet. Remember you told me yourself that you meant to keep him +waiting many a year.” + +“Ay, one can joke when one is well, even in old age; but in sickness +one’s gayety falters to grief; and that which seemed small looks large; +and the grim far-off seems near.” + +Grace’s eyes had tears in them. “I don’t like to go to him on such an +errand, Grammer,” she said, brokenly. “But I will, to ease your mind.” + +It was with extreme reluctance that Grace cloaked herself next morning +for the undertaking. She was all the more indisposed to the journey by +reason of Grammer’s allusion to the effect of a pretty face upon Dr. +Fitzpiers; and hence she most illogically did that which, had the +doctor never seen her, would have operated to stultify the sole motive +of her journey; that is to say, she put on a woollen veil, which hid +all her face except an occasional spark of her eyes. + +Her own wish that nothing should be known of this strange and grewsome +proceeding, no less than Grammer Oliver’s own desire, led Grace to take +every precaution against being discovered. She went out by the garden +door as the safest way, all the household having occupations at the +other side. The morning looked forbidding enough when she stealthily +opened it. The battle between frost and thaw was continuing in mid-air: +the trees dripped on the garden-plots, where no vegetables would grow +for the dripping, though they were planted year after year with that +curious mechanical regularity of country people in the face of +hopelessness; the moss which covered the once broad gravel terrace was +swamped; and Grace stood irresolute. Then she thought of poor Grammer, +and her dreams of the doctor running after her, scalpel in hand, and +the possibility of a case so curiously similar to South’s ending in the +same way; thereupon she stepped out into the drizzle. + +The nature of her errand, and Grammer Oliver’s account of the compact +she had made, lent a fascinating horror to Grace’s conception of +Fitzpiers. She knew that he was a young man; but her single object in +seeking an interview with him put all considerations of his age and +social aspect from her mind. Standing as she stood, in Grammer Oliver’s +shoes, he was simply a remorseless Jove of the sciences, who would not +have mercy, and would have sacrifice; a man whom, save for this, she +would have preferred to avoid knowing. But since, in such a small +village, it was improbable that any long time could pass without their +meeting, there was not much to deplore in her having to meet him now. + +But, as need hardly be said, Miss Melbury’s view of the doctor as a +merciless, unwavering, irresistible scientist was not quite in +accordance with fact. The real Dr. Fitzpiers was a man of too many +hobbies to show likelihood of rising to any great eminence in the +profession he had chosen, or even to acquire any wide practice in the +rural district he had marked out as his field of survey for the +present. In the course of a year his mind was accustomed to pass in a +grand solar sweep through all the zodiacal signs of the intellectual +heaven. Sometimes it was in the Ram, sometimes in the Bull; one month +he would be immersed in alchemy, another in poesy; one month in the +Twins of astrology and astronomy; then in the Crab of German literature +and metaphysics. In justice to him it must be stated that he took such +studies as were immediately related to his own profession in turn with +the rest, and it had been in a month of anatomical ardor without the +possibility of a subject that he had proposed to Grammer Oliver the +terms she had mentioned to her mistress. + +As may be inferred from the tone of his conversation with Winterborne, +he had lately plunged into abstract philosophy with much zest; perhaps +his keenly appreciative, modern, unpractical mind found this a realm +more to his taste than any other. Though his aims were desultory, +Fitzpiers’s mental constitution was not without its admirable side; a +keen inquirer he honestly was, even if the midnight rays of his lamp, +visible so far through the trees of Hintock, lighted rank literatures +of emotion and passion as often as, or oftener than, the books and +_matériel_ of science. + +But whether he meditated the Muses or the philosophers, the loneliness +of Hintock life was beginning to tell upon his impressionable nature. +Winter in a solitary house in the country, without society, is +tolerable, nay, even enjoyable and delightful, given certain +conditions, but these are not the conditions which attach to the life +of a professional man who drops down into such a place by mere +accident. They were present to the lives of Winterborne, Melbury, and +Grace; but not to the doctor’s. They are old association—an almost +exhaustive biographical or historical acquaintance with every object, +animate and inanimate, within the observer’s horizon. He must know all +about those invisible ones of the days gone by, whose feet have +traversed the fields which look so gray from his windows; recall whose +creaking plough has turned those sods from time to time; whose hands +planted the trees that form a crest to the opposite hill; whose horses +and hounds have torn through that underwood; what birds affect that +particular brake; what domestic dramas of love, jealousy, revenge, or +disappointment have been enacted in the cottages, the mansion, the +street, or on the green. The spot may have beauty, grandeur, salubrity, +convenience; but if it lack memories it will ultimately pall upon him +who settles there without opportunity of intercourse with his kind. + +In such circumstances, maybe, an old man dreams of an ideal friend, +till he throws himself into the arms of any impostor who chooses to +wear that title on his face. A young man may dream of an ideal friend +likewise, but some humor of the blood will probably lead him to think +rather of an ideal mistress, and at length the rustle of a woman’s +dress, the sound of her voice, or the transit of her form across the +field of his vision, will enkindle his soul with a flame that blinds +his eyes. + +The discovery of the attractive Grace’s name and family would have been +enough in other circumstances to lead the doctor, if not to put her +personality out of his head, to change the character of his interest in +her. Instead of treasuring her image as a rarity, he would at most have +played with it as a toy. He was that kind of a man. But situated here +he could not go so far as amative cruelty. He dismissed all reverential +thought about her, but he could not help taking her seriously. + +He went on to imagine the impossible. So far, indeed, did he go in this +futile direction that, as others are wont to do, he constructed +dialogues and scenes in which Grace had turned out to be the mistress +of Hintock Manor-house, the mysterious Mrs. Charmond, particularly +ready and willing to be wooed by himself and nobody else. “Well, she +isn’t that,” he said, finally. “But she’s a very sweet, nice, +exceptional girl.” + +The next morning he breakfasted alone, as usual. It was snowing with a +fine-flaked desultoriness just sufficient to make the woodland gray, +without ever achieving whiteness. There was not a single letter for +Fitzpiers, only a medical circular and a weekly newspaper. + +To sit before a large fire on such mornings, and read, and gradually +acquire energy till the evening came, and then, with lamp alight, and +feeling full of vigor, to pursue some engrossing subject or other till +the small hours, had hitherto been his practice. But to-day he could +not settle into his chair. That self-contained position he had lately +occupied, in which the only attention demanded was the concentration of +the inner eye, all outer regard being quite gratuitous, seemed to have +been taken by insidious stratagem, and for the first time he had an +interest outside the house. He walked from one window to another, and +became aware that the most irksome of solitudes is not the solitude of +remoteness, but that which is just outside desirable company. + +The breakfast hour went by heavily enough, and the next followed, in +the same half-snowy, half-rainy style, the weather now being the +inevitable relapse which sooner or later succeeds a time too radiant +for the season, such as they had enjoyed in the late midwinter at +Hintock. To people at home there these changeful tricks had their +interests; the strange mistakes that some of the more sanguine trees +had made in budding before their month, to be incontinently glued up by +frozen thawings now; the similar sanguine errors of impulsive birds in +framing nests that were now swamped by snow-water, and other such +incidents, prevented any sense of wearisomeness in the minds of the +natives. But these were features of a world not familiar to Fitzpiers, +and the inner visions to which he had almost exclusively attended +having suddenly failed in their power to absorb him, he felt +unutterably dreary. + +He wondered how long Miss Melbury was going to stay in Hintock. The +season was unpropitious for accidental encounters with her +out-of-doors, and except by accident he saw not how they were to become +acquainted. One thing was clear—any acquaintance with her could only, +with a due regard to his future, be casual, at most of the nature of a +flirtation; for he had high aims, and they would some day lead him into +other spheres than this. + +Thus desultorily thinking he flung himself down upon the couch, which, +as in many draughty old country houses, was constructed with a hood, +being in fact a legitimate development from the settle. He tried to +read as he reclined, but having sat up till three o’clock that morning, +the book slipped from his hand and he fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +It was at this time that Grace approached the house. Her knock, always +soft in virtue of her nature, was softer to-day by reason of her +strange errand. However, it was heard by the farmer’s wife who kept the +house, and Grace was admitted. Opening the door of the doctor’s room +the housewife glanced in, and imagining Fitzpiers absent, asked Miss +Melbury to enter and wait a few minutes while she should go and find +him, believing him to be somewhere on the premises. Grace acquiesced, +went in, and sat down close to the door. + +As soon as the door was shut upon her she looked round the room, and +started at perceiving a handsome man snugly ensconced in the couch, +like the recumbent figure within some canopied mural tomb of the +fifteenth century, except that his hands were by no means clasped in +prayer. She had no doubt that this was the doctor. Awaken him herself +she could not, and her immediate impulse was to go and pull the broad +ribbon with a brass rosette which hung at one side of the fireplace. +But expecting the landlady to re-enter in a moment she abandoned this +intention, and stood gazing in great embarrassment at the reclining +philosopher. + +The windows of Fitzpiers’s soul being at present shuttered, he probably +appeared less impressive than in his hours of animation; but the light +abstracted from his material presence by sleep was more than +counterbalanced by the mysterious influence of that state, in a +stranger, upon the consciousness of a beholder so sensitive. So far as +she could criticise at all, she became aware that she had encountered a +specimen of creation altogether unusual in that locality. The occasions +on which Grace had observed men of this stamp were when she had been +far removed away from Hintock, and even then such examples as had met +her eye were at a distance, and mainly of coarser fibre than the one +who now confronted her. + +She nervously wondered why the woman had not discovered her mistake and +returned, and went again towards the bell-pull. Approaching the chimney +her back was to Fitzpiers, but she could see him in the glass. An +indescribable thrill passed through her as she perceived that the eyes +of the reflected image were open, gazing wonderingly at her, and under +the curious unexpectedness of the sight she became as if spellbound, +almost powerless to turn her head and regard the original. However, by +an effort she did turn, when there he lay asleep the same as before. + +Her startled perplexity as to what he could be meaning was sufficient +to lead her to precipitately abandon her errand. She crossed quickly to +the door, opened and closed it noiselessly, and went out of the house +unobserved. By the time that she had gone down the path and through the +garden door into the lane she had recovered her equanimity. Here, +screened by the hedge, she stood and considered a while. + +Drip, drip, drip, fell the rain upon her umbrella and around; she had +come out on such a morning because of the seriousness of the matter in +hand; yet now she had allowed her mission to be stultified by a +momentary tremulousness concerning an incident which perhaps had meant +nothing after all. + +In the mean time her departure from the room, stealthy as it had been, +had roused Fitzpiers, and he sat up. In the reflection from the mirror +which Grace had beheld there was no mystery; he had opened his eyes for +a few moments, but had immediately relapsed into unconsciousness, if, +indeed, he had ever been positively awake. That somebody had just left +the room he was certain, and that the lovely form which seemed to have +visited him in a dream was no less than the real presentation of the +person departed he could hardly doubt. + +Looking out of the window a few minutes later, down the box-edged +gravel-path which led to the bottom, he saw the garden door gently +open, and through it enter the young girl of his thoughts, Grace having +just at this juncture determined to return and attempt the interview a +second time. That he saw her coming instead of going made him ask +himself if his first impression of her were not a dream indeed. She +came hesitatingly along, carrying her umbrella so low over her head +that he could hardly see her face. When she reached the point where the +raspberry bushes ended and the strawberry bed began, she made a little +pause. + +Fitzpiers feared that she might not be coming to him even now, and +hastily quitting the room, he ran down the path to meet her. The nature +of her errand he could not divine, but he was prepared to give her any +amount of encouragement. + +“I beg pardon, Miss Melbury,” he said. “I saw you from the window, and +fancied you might imagine that I was not at home—if it is I you were +coming for.” + +“I was coming to speak one word to you, nothing more,” she replied. +“And I can say it here.” + +“No, no. Please do come in. Well, then, if you will not come into the +house, come as far as the porch.” + +Thus pressed she went on to the porch, and they stood together inside +it, Fitzpiers closing her umbrella for her. + +“I have merely a request or petition to make,” she said. “My father’s +servant is ill—a woman you know—and her illness is serious.” + +“I am sorry to hear it. You wish me to come and see her at once?” + +“No; I particularly wish you not to come.” + +“Oh, indeed.” + +“Yes; and she wishes the same. It would make her seriously worse if you +were to come. It would almost kill her....My errand is of a peculiar +and awkward nature. It is concerning a subject which weighs on her +mind—that unfortunate arrangement she made with you, that you might +have her body—after death.” + +“Oh! Grammer Oliver, the old woman with the fine head. Seriously ill, +is she!” + +“And _so_ disturbed by her rash compact! I have brought the money +back—will you please return to her the agreement she signed?” Grace +held out to him a couple of five-pound notes which she had kept ready +tucked in her glove. + +Without replying or considering the notes, Fitzpiers allowed his +thoughts to follow his eyes, and dwell upon Grace’s personality, and +the sudden close relation in which he stood to her. The porch was +narrow; the rain increased. It ran off the porch and dripped on the +creepers, and from the creepers upon the edge of Grace’s cloak and +skirts. + +“The rain is wetting your dress; please do come in,” he said. “It +really makes my heart ache to let you stay here.” + +Immediately inside the front door was the door of his sitting-room; he +flung it open, and stood in a coaxing attitude. Try how she would, +Grace could not resist the supplicatory mandate written in the face and +manner of this man, and distressful resignation sat on her as she +glided past him into the room—brushing his coat with her elbow by +reason of the narrowness. + +He followed her, shut the door—which she somehow had hoped he would +leave open—and placing a chair for her, sat down. The concern which +Grace felt at the development of these commonplace incidents was, of +course, mainly owing to the strange effect upon her nerves of that view +of him in the mirror gazing at her with open eyes when she had thought +him sleeping, which made her fancy that his slumber might have been a +feint based on inexplicable reasons. + +She again proffered the notes; he awoke from looking at her as at a +piece of live statuary, and listened deferentially as she said, “Will +you then reconsider, and cancel the bond which poor Grammer Oliver so +foolishly gave?” + +“I’ll cancel it without reconsideration. Though you will allow me to +have my own opinion about her foolishness. Grammer is a very wise +woman, and she was as wise in that as in other things. You think there +was something very fiendish in the compact, do you not, Miss Melbury? +But remember that the most eminent of our surgeons in past times have +entered into such agreements.” + +“Not fiendish—strange.” + +“Yes, that may be, since strangeness is not in the nature of a thing, +but in its relation to something extrinsic—in this case an unessential +observer.” + +He went to his desk, and searching a while found a paper, which be +unfolded and brought to her. A thick cross appeared in ink at the +bottom—evidently from the hand of Grammer. Grace put the paper in her +pocket with a look of much relief. + +As Fitzpiers did not take up the money (half of which had come from +Grace’s own purse), she pushed it a little nearer to him. “No, no. I +shall not take it from the old woman,” he said. “It is more strange +than the fact of a surgeon arranging to obtain a subject for dissection +that our acquaintance should be formed out of it.” + +“I am afraid you think me uncivil in showing my dislike to the notion. +But I did not mean to be.” + +“Oh no, no.” He looked at her, as he had done before, with puzzled +interest. “I cannot think, I cannot think,” he murmured. “Something +bewilders me greatly.” He still reflected and hesitated. “Last night I +sat up very late,” he at last went on, “and on that account I fell into +a little nap on that couch about half an hour ago. And during my few +minutes of unconsciousness I dreamed—what do you think?—that you stood +in the room.” + +Should she tell? She merely blushed. + +“You may imagine,” Fitzpiers continued, now persuaded that it had, +indeed, been a dream, “that I should not have dreamed of you without +considerable thinking about you first.” + +He could not be acting; of that she felt assured. + +“I fancied in my vision that you stood there,” he said, pointing to +where she had paused. “I did not see you directly, but reflected in the +glass. I thought, what a lovely creature! The design is for once +carried out. Nature has at last recovered her lost union with the Idea! +My thoughts ran in that direction because I had been reading the work +of a transcendental philosopher last night; and I dare say it was the +dose of Idealism that I received from it that made me scarcely able to +distinguish between reality and fancy. I almost wept when I awoke, and +found that you had appeared to me in Time, but not in Space, alas!” + +At moments there was something theatrical in the delivery of +Fitzpiers’s effusion; yet it would have been inexact to say that it was +intrinsically theatrical. It often happens that in situations of +unrestraint, where there is no thought of the eye of criticism, real +feeling glides into a mode of manifestation not easily distinguishable +from rodomontade. A veneer of affectation overlies a bulk of truth, +with the evil consequence, if perceived, that the substance is +estimated by the superficies, and the whole rejected. + +Grace, however, was no specialist in men’s manners, and she admired the +sentiment without thinking of the form. And she was embarrassed: +“lovely creature” made explanation awkward to her gentle modesty. + +“But can it be,” said he, suddenly, “that you really were here?” + +“I have to confess that I have been in the room once before,” faltered +she. “The woman showed me in, and went away to fetch you; but as she +did not return, I left.” + +“And you saw me asleep,” he murmured, with the faintest show of +humiliation. + +“Yes—_if_ you were asleep, and did not deceive me.” + +“Why do you say if?” + +“I saw your eyes open in the glass, but as they were closed when I +looked round upon you, I thought you were perhaps deceiving me. + +“Never,” said Fitzpiers, fervently—“never could I deceive you.” + +Foreknowledge to the distance of a year or so in either of them might +have spoiled the effect of that pretty speech. Never deceive her! But +they knew nothing, and the phrase had its day. + +Grace began now to be anxious to terminate the interview, but the +compelling power of Fitzpiers’s atmosphere still held her there. She +was like an inexperienced actress who, having at last taken up her +position on the boards, and spoken her speeches, does not know how to +move off. The thought of Grammer occurred to her. “I’ll go at once and +tell poor Grammer of your generosity,” she said. “It will relieve her +at once.” + +“Grammer’s a nervous disease, too—how singular!” he answered, +accompanying her to the door. “One moment; look at this—it is something +which may interest you.” + +He had thrown open the door on the other side of the passage, and she +saw a microscope on the table of the confronting room. “Look into it, +please; you’ll be interested,” he repeated. + +She applied her eye, and saw the usual circle of light patterned all +over with a cellular tissue of some indescribable sort. “What do you +think that is?” said Fitzpiers. + +She did not know. + +“That’s a fragment of old John South’s brain, which I am +investigating.” + +She started back, not with aversion, but with wonder as to how it +should have got there. Fitzpiers laughed. + +“Here am I,” he said, “endeavoring to carry on simultaneously the study +of physiology and transcendental philosophy, the material world and the +ideal, so as to discover if possible a point of contrast between them; +and your finer sense is quite offended!” + +“Oh no, Mr. Fitzpiers,” said Grace, earnestly. “It is not so at all. I +know from seeing your light at night how deeply you meditate and work. +Instead of condemning you for your studies, I admire you very much!” + +Her face, upturned from the microscope, was so sweet, sincere, and +self-forgetful in its aspect that the susceptible Fitzpiers more than +wished to annihilate the lineal yard which separated it from his own. +Whether anything of the kind showed in his eyes or not, Grace remained +no longer at the microscope, but quickly went her way into the rain. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +Instead of resuming his investigation of South’s brain, which perhaps +was not so interesting under the microscope as might have been expected +from the importance of that organ in life, Fitzpiers reclined and +ruminated on the interview. Grace’s curious susceptibility to his +presence, though it was as if the currents of her life were disturbed +rather than attracted by him, added a special interest to her general +charm. Fitzpiers was in a distinct degree scientific, being ready and +zealous to interrogate all physical manifestations, but primarily he +was an idealist. He believed that behind the imperfect lay the perfect; +that rare things were to be discovered amid a bulk of commonplace; that +results in a new and untried case might be different from those in +other cases where the conditions had been precisely similar. Regarding +his own personality as one of unbounded possibilities, because it was +his own—notwithstanding that the factors of his life had worked out a +sorry product for thousands—he saw nothing but what was regular in his +discovery at Hintock of an altogether exceptional being of the other +sex, who for nobody else would have had any existence. + +One habit of Fitzpiers’s—commoner in dreamers of more advanced age than +in men of his years—was that of talking to himself. He paced round his +room with a selective tread upon the more prominent blooms of the +carpet, and murmured, “This phenomenal girl will be the light of my +life while I am at Hintock; and the special beauty of the situation is +that our attitude and relations to each other will be purely spiritual. +Socially we can never be intimate. Anything like matrimonial intentions +towards her, charming as she is, would be absurd. They would spoil the +ethereal character of my regard. And, indeed, I have other aims on the +practical side of my life.” + +Fitzpiers bestowed a regulation thought on the advantageous marriage he +was bound to make with a woman of family as good as his own, and of +purse much longer. But as an object of contemplation for the present, +as objective spirit rather than corporeal presence, Grace Melbury would +serve to keep his soul alive, and to relieve the monotony of his days. + +His first notion—acquired from the mere sight of her without +converse—that of an idle and vulgar flirtation with a timber-merchant’s +pretty daughter, grated painfully upon him now that he had found what +Grace intrinsically was. Personal intercourse with such as she could +take no lower form than intellectual communion, and mutual explorations +of the world of thought. Since he could not call at her father’s, +having no practical views, cursory encounters in the lane, in the wood, +coming and going to and from church, or in passing her dwelling, were +what the acquaintance would have to feed on. + +Such anticipated glimpses of her now and then realized themselves in +the event. Rencounters of not more than a minute’s duration, frequently +repeated, will build up mutual interest, even an intimacy, in a lonely +place. Theirs grew as imperceptibly as the tree-twigs budded. There +never was a particular moment at which it could be said they became +friends; yet a delicate understanding now existed between two who in +the winter had been strangers. + +Spring weather came on rather suddenly, the unsealing of buds that had +long been swollen accomplishing itself in the space of one warm night. +The rush of sap in the veins of the trees could almost be heard. The +flowers of late April took up a position unseen, and looked as if they +had been blooming a long while, though there had been no trace of them +the day before yesterday; birds began not to mind getting wet. In-door +people said they had heard the nightingale, to which out-door people +replied contemptuously that they had heard him a fortnight before. + +The young doctor’s practice being scarcely so large as a London +surgeon’s, he frequently walked in the wood. Indeed such practice as he +had he did not follow up with the assiduity that would have been +necessary for developing it to exceptional proportions. One day, book +in hand, he walked in a part of the wood where the trees were mainly +oaks. It was a calm afternoon, and there was everywhere around that +sign of great undertakings on the part of vegetable nature which is apt +to fill reflective human beings who are not undertaking much themselves +with a sudden uneasiness at the contrast. He heard in the distance a +curious sound, something like the quack of a duck, which, though it was +common enough here about this time, was not common to him. + +Looking through the trees Fitzpiers soon perceived the origin of the +noise. The barking season had just commenced, and what he had heard was +the tear of the ripping tool as it ploughed its way along the sticky +parting between the trunk and the rind. Melbury did a large business in +bark, and as he was Grace’s father, and possibly might be found on the +spot, Fitzpiers was attracted to the scene even more than he might have +been by its intrinsic interest. When he got nearer he recognized among +the workmen the two Timothys, and Robert Creedle, who probably had been +“lent” by Winterborne; Marty South also assisted. + +Each tree doomed to this flaying process was first attacked by Creedle. +With a small billhook he carefully freed the collar of the tree from +twigs and patches of moss which incrusted it to a height of a foot or +two above the ground, an operation comparable to the “little toilet” of +the executioner’s victim. After this it was barked in its erect +position to a point as high as a man could reach. If a fine product of +vegetable nature could ever be said to look ridiculous it was the case +now, when the oak stood naked-legged, and as if ashamed, till the +axe-man came and cut a ring round it, and the two Timothys finished the +work with the crosscut-saw. + +As soon as it had fallen the barkers attacked it like locusts, and in a +short time not a particle of rind was left on the trunk and larger +limbs. Marty South was an adept at peeling the upper parts, and there +she stood encaged amid the mass of twigs and buds like a great bird, +running her tool into the smallest branches, beyond the farthest points +to which the skill and patience of the men enabled them to +proceed—branches which, in their lifetime, had swayed high above the +bulk of the wood, and caught the latest and earliest rays of the sun +and moon while the lower part of the forest was still in darkness. + +“You seem to have a better instrument than they, Marty,” said +Fitzpiers. + +“No, sir,” she said, holding up the tool—a horse’s leg-bone fitted into +a handle and filed to an edge—“’tis only that they’ve less patience +with the twigs, because their time is worth more than mine.” + +A little shed had been constructed on the spot, of thatched hurdles and +boughs, and in front of it was a fire, over which a kettle sung. +Fitzpiers sat down inside the shelter, and went on with his reading, +except when he looked up to observe the scene and the actors. The +thought that he might settle here and become welded in with this sylvan +life by marrying Grace Melbury crossed his mind for a moment. Why +should he go farther into the world than where he was? The secret of +quiet happiness lay in limiting the ideas and aspirations; these men’s +thoughts were conterminous with the margin of the Hintock woodlands, +and why should not his be likewise limited—a small practice among the +people around him being the bound of his desires? + +Presently Marty South discontinued her operations upon the quivering +boughs, came out from the reclining oak, and prepared tea. When it was +ready the men were called; and Fitzpiers being in a mood to join, sat +down with them. + +The latent reason of his lingering here so long revealed itself when +the faint creaking of the joints of a vehicle became audible, and one +of the men said, “Here’s he.” Turning their heads they saw Melbury’s +gig approaching, the wheels muffled by the yielding moss. + +The timber-merchant was on foot leading the horse, looking back at +every few steps to caution his daughter, who kept her seat, where and +how to duck her head so as to avoid the overhanging branches. They +stopped at the spot where the bark-ripping had been temporarily +suspended; Melbury cursorily examined the heaps of bark, and drawing +near to where the workmen were sitting down, accepted their shouted +invitation to have a dish of tea, for which purpose he hitched the +horse to a bough. Grace declined to take any of their beverage, and +remained in her place in the vehicle, looking dreamily at the sunlight +that came in thin threads through the hollies with which the oaks were +interspersed. + +When Melbury stepped up close to the shelter, he for the first time +perceived that the doctor was present, and warmly appreciated +Fitzpiers’s invitation to sit down on the log beside him. + +“Bless my heart, who would have thought of finding you here,” he said, +obviously much pleased at the circumstance. “I wonder now if my +daughter knows you are so nigh at hand. I don’t expect she do.” + +He looked out towards the gig wherein Grace sat, her face still turned +in the opposite direction. “She doesn’t see us. Well, never mind: let +her be.” + +Grace was indeed quite unconscious of Fitzpiers’s propinquity. She was +thinking of something which had little connection with the scene before +her—thinking of her friend, lost as soon as found, Mrs. Charmond; of +her capricious conduct, and of the contrasting scenes she was possibly +enjoying at that very moment in other climes, to which Grace herself +had hoped to be introduced by her friend’s means. She wondered if this +patronizing lady would return to Hintock during the summer, and whether +the acquaintance which had been nipped on the last occasion of her +residence there would develop on the next. + +Melbury told ancient timber-stories as he sat, relating them directly +to Fitzpiers, and obliquely to the men, who had heard them often +before. Marty, who poured out tea, was just saying, “I think I’ll take +out a cup to Miss Grace,” when they heard a clashing of the +gig-harness, and turning round Melbury saw that the horse had become +restless, and was jerking about the vehicle in a way which alarmed its +occupant, though she refrained from screaming. Melbury jumped up +immediately, but not more quickly than Fitzpiers; and while her father +ran to the horse’s head and speedily began to control him, Fitzpiers +was alongside the gig assisting Grace to descend. Her surprise at his +appearance was so great that, far from making a calm and independent +descent, she was very nearly lifted down in his arms. He relinquished +her when she touched ground, and hoped she was not frightened. + +“Oh no, not much,” she managed to say. “There was no danger—unless he +had run under the trees where the boughs are low enough to hit my +head.” + +“Which was by no means an impossibility, and justifies any amount of +alarm.” + +He referred to what he thought he saw written in her face, and she +could not tell him that this had little to do with the horse, but much +with himself. His contiguity had, in fact, the same effect upon her as +on those former occasions when he had come closer to her than +usual—that of producing in her an unaccountable tendency to +tearfulness. Melbury soon put the horse to rights, and seeing that +Grace was safe, turned again to the work-people. His daughter’s nervous +distress had passed off in a few moments, and she said quite gayly to +Fitzpiers as she walked with him towards the group, “There’s destiny in +it, you see. I was doomed to join in your picnic, although I did not +intend to do so.” + +Marty prepared her a comfortable place, and she sat down in the circle, +and listened to Fitzpiers while he drew from her father and the +bark-rippers sundry narratives of their fathers’, their grandfathers’, +and their own adventures in these woods; of the mysterious sights they +had seen—only to be accounted for by supernatural agency; of white +witches and black witches; and the standard story of the spirits of the +two brothers who had fought and fallen, and had haunted Hintock House +till they were exorcised by the priest, and compelled to retreat to a +swamp in this very wood, whence they were returning to their old +quarters at the rate of a cock’s stride every New-year’s Day, old +style; hence the local saying, “On New-year’s tide, a cock’s stride.” + +It was a pleasant time. The smoke from the little fire of peeled sticks +rose between the sitters and the sunlight, and behind its blue veil +stretched the naked arms of the prostrate trees. The smell of the +uncovered sap mingled with the smell of the burning wood, and the +sticky inner surface of the scattered bark glistened as it revealed its +pale madder hues to the eye. Melbury was so highly satisfied at having +Fitzpiers as a sort of guest that he would have sat on for any length +of time, but Grace, on whom Fitzpiers’s eyes only too frequently +alighted, seemed to think it incumbent upon her to make a show of +going; and her father thereupon accompanied her to the vehicle. + +As the doctor had helped her out of it he appeared to think that he had +excellent reasons for helping her in, and performed the attention +lingeringly enough. + +“What were you almost in tears about just now?” he asked, softly. + +“I don’t know,” she said: and the words were strictly true. + +Melbury mounted on the other side, and they drove on out of the grove, +their wheels silently crushing delicate-patterned mosses, hyacinths, +primroses, lords-and-ladies, and other strange and ordinary plants, and +cracking up little sticks that lay across the track. Their way homeward +ran along the crest of a lofty hill, whence on the right they beheld a +wide valley, differing both in feature and atmosphere from that of the +Hintock precincts. It was the cider country, which met the woodland +district on the axis of this hill. Over the vale the air was blue as +sapphire—such a blue as outside that apple-valley was never seen. Under +the blue the orchards were in a blaze of bloom, some of the richly +flowered trees running almost up to where they drove along. Over a gate +which opened down the incline a man leaned on his arms, regarding this +fair promise so intently that he did not observe their passing. + +“That was Giles,” said Melbury, when they had gone by. + +“Was it? Poor Giles,” said she. + +“All that blooth means heavy autumn work for him and his hands. If no +blight happens before the setting the apple yield will be such as we +have not had for years.” + +Meanwhile, in the wood they had come from, the men had sat on so long +that they were indisposed to begin work again that evening; they were +paid by the ton, and their time for labor was as they chose. They +placed the last gatherings of bark in rows for the curers, which led +them farther and farther away from the shed; and thus they gradually +withdrew as the sun went down. + +Fitzpiers lingered yet. He had opened his book again, though he could +hardly see a word in it, and sat before the dying fire, scarcely +knowing of the men’s departure. He dreamed and mused till his +consciousness seemed to occupy the whole space of the woodland around, +so little was there of jarring sight or sound to hinder perfect unity +with the sentiment of the place. The idea returned upon him of +sacrificing all practical aims to live in calm contentment here, and +instead of going on elaborating new conceptions with infinite pains, to +accept quiet domesticity according to oldest and homeliest notions. +These reflections detained him till the wood was embrowned with the +coming night, and the shy little bird of this dusky time had begun to +pour out all the intensity of his eloquence from a bush not very far +off. + +Fitzpiers’s eyes commanded as much of the ground in front as was open. +Entering upon this he saw a figure, whose direction of movement was +towards the spot where he sat. The surgeon was quite shrouded from +observation by the recessed shadow of the hut, and there was no reason +why he should move till the stranger had passed by. The shape resolved +itself into a woman’s; she was looking on the ground, and walking +slowly as if searching for something that had been lost, her course +being precisely that of Mr. Melbury’s gig. Fitzpiers by a sort of +divination jumped to the idea that the figure was Grace’s; her nearer +approach made the guess a certainty. + +Yes, she was looking for something; and she came round by the prostrate +trees that would have been invisible but for the white nakedness which +enabled her to avoid them easily. Thus she approached the heap of +ashes, and acting upon what was suggested by a still shining ember or +two, she took a stick and stirred the heap, which thereupon burst into +a flame. On looking around by the light thus obtained she for the first +time saw the illumined face of Fitzpiers, precisely in the spot where +she had left him. + +Grace gave a start and a scream: the place had been associated with him +in her thoughts, but she had not expected to find him there still. +Fitzpiers lost not a moment in rising and going to her side. + +“I frightened you dreadfully, I know,” he said. “I ought to have +spoken; but I did not at first expect it to be you. I have been sitting +here ever since.” + +He was actually supporting her with his arm, as though under the +impression that she was quite overcome, and in danger of falling. As +soon as she could collect her ideas she gently withdrew from his grasp, +and explained what she had returned for: in getting up or down from the +gig, or when sitting by the hut fire, she had dropped her purse. + +“Now we will find it,” said Fitzpiers. + +He threw an armful of last year’s leaves on to the fire, which made the +flame leap higher, and the encompassing shades to weave themselves into +a denser contrast, turning eve into night in a moment. By this radiance +they groped about on their hands and knees, till Fitzpiers rested on +his elbow, and looked at Grace. “We must always meet in odd +circumstances,” he said; “and this is one of the oddest. I wonder if it +means anything?” + +“Oh no, I am sure it doesn’t,” said Grace in haste, quickly assuming an +erect posture. “Pray don’t say it any more.” + +“I hope there was not much money in the purse,” said Fitzpiers, rising +to his feet more slowly, and brushing the leaves from his trousers. + +“Scarcely any. I cared most about the purse itself, because it was +given me. Indeed, money is of little more use at Hintock than on +Crusoe’s island; there’s hardly any way of spending it.” + +They had given up the search when Fitzpiers discerned something by his +foot. “Here it is,” he said, “so that your father, mother, friend, or +_admirer_ will not have his or her feelings hurt by a sense of your +negligence after all.” + +“Oh, he knows nothing of what I do now.” + +“The admirer?” said Fitzpiers, slyly. + +“I don’t know if you would call him that,” said Grace, with simplicity. +“The admirer is a superficial, conditional creature, and this person is +quite different.” + +“He has all the cardinal virtues.” + +“Perhaps—though I don’t know them precisely.” + +“You unconsciously practise them, Miss Melbury, which is better. +According to Schleiermacher they are Self-control, Perseverance, +Wisdom, and Love; and his is the best list that I know.” + +“I am afraid poor—” She was going to say that she feared +Winterborne—the giver of the purse years before—had not much +perseverance, though he had all the other three; but she determined to +go no further in this direction, and was silent. + +These half-revelations made a perceptible difference in Fitzpiers. His +sense of personal superiority wasted away, and Grace assumed in his +eyes the true aspect of a mistress in her lover’s regard. + +“Miss Melbury,” he said, suddenly, “I divine that this virtuous man you +mention has been refused by you?” + +She could do no otherwise than admit it. + +“I do not inquire without good reason. God forbid that I should kneel +in another’s place at any shrine unfairly. But, my dear Miss Melbury, +now that he is gone, may I draw near?” + +“I—I can’t say anything about that!” she cried, quickly. “Because when +a man has been refused you feel pity for him, and like him more than +you did before.” + +This increasing complication added still more value to Grace in the +surgeon’s eyes: it rendered her adorable. “But cannot you say?” he +pleaded, distractedly. + +“I’d rather not—I think I must go home at once.” + +“Oh yes,” said Fitzpiers. But as he did not move she felt it awkward to +walk straight away from him; and so they stood silently together. A +diversion was created by the accident of two birds, that had either +been roosting above their heads or nesting there, tumbling one over the +other into the hot ashes at their feet, apparently engrossed in a +desperate quarrel that prevented the use of their wings. They speedily +parted, however, and flew up, and were seen no more. + +“That’s the end of what is called love!” said some one. + +The speaker was neither Grace nor Fitzpiers, but Marty South, who +approached with her face turned up to the sky in her endeavor to trace +the birds. Suddenly perceiving Grace, she exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Melbury! +I have been following they pigeons, and didn’t see you. And here’s Mr. +Winterborne!” she continued, shyly, as she looked towards Fitzpiers, +who stood in the background. + +“Marty,” Grace interrupted. “I want you to walk home with me—will you? +Come along.” And without lingering longer she took hold of Marty’s arm +and led her away. + +They went between the spectral arms of the peeled trees as they lay, +and onward among the growing trees, by a path where there were no oaks, +and no barking, and no Fitzpiers—nothing but copse-wood, between which +the primroses could be discerned in pale bunches. “I didn’t know Mr. +Winterborne was there,” said Marty, breaking the silence when they had +nearly reached Grace’s door. + +“Nor was he,” said Grace. + +“But, Miss Melbury, I saw him.” + +“No,” said Grace. “It was somebody else. Giles Winterborne is nothing +to me.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +The leaves over Hintock grew denser in their substance, and the +woodland seemed to change from an open filigree to a solid opaque body +of infinitely larger shape and importance. The boughs cast green +shades, which hurt the complexion of the girls who walked there; and a +fringe of them which overhung Mr. Melbury’s garden dripped on his +seed-plots when it rained, pitting their surface all over as with +pock-marks, till Melbury declared that gardens in such a place were no +good at all. The two trees that had creaked all the winter left off +creaking, the whir of the night-jar, however, forming a very +satisfactory continuation of uncanny music from that quarter. Except at +mid-day the sun was not seen complete by the Hintock people, but rather +in the form of numerous little stars staring through the leaves. + +Such an appearance it had on Midsummer Eve of this year, and as the +hour grew later, and nine o’clock drew on, the irradiation of the +daytime became broken up by weird shadows and ghostly nooks of +indistinctness. Imagination could trace upon the trunks and boughs +strange faces and figures shaped by the dying lights; the surfaces of +the holly-leaves would here and there shine like peeping eyes, while +such fragments of the sky as were visible between the trunks assumed +the aspect of sheeted forms and cloven tongues. This was before the +moonrise. Later on, when that planet was getting command of the upper +heaven, and consequently shining with an unbroken face into such open +glades as there were in the neighborhood of the hamlet, it became +apparent that the margin of the wood which approached the +timber-merchant’s premises was not to be left to the customary +stillness of that reposeful time. + +Fitzpiers having heard a voice or voices, was looking over his garden +gate—where he now looked more frequently than into his books—fancying +that Grace might be abroad with some friends. He was now irretrievably +committed in heart to Grace Melbury, though he was by no means sure +that she was so far committed to him. That the Idea had for once +completely fulfilled itself in the objective substance—which he had +hitherto deemed an impossibility—he was enchanted enough to fancy must +be the case at last. It was not Grace who had passed, however, but +several of the ordinary village girls in a group—some steadily walking, +some in a mood of wild gayety. He quietly asked his landlady, who was +also in the garden, what these girls were intending, and she informed +him that it being Old Midsummer Eve, they were about to attempt some +spell or enchantment which would afford them a glimpse of their future +partners for life. She declared it to be an ungodly performance, and +one which she for her part would never countenance; saying which, she +entered her house and retired to bed. + +The young man lit a cigar and followed the bevy of maidens slowly up +the road. They had turned into the wood at an opening between Melbury’s +and Marty South’s; but Fitzpiers could easily track them by their +voices, low as they endeavored to keep their tones. + +In the mean time other inhabitants of Little Hintock had become aware +of the nocturnal experiment about to be tried, and were also sauntering +stealthily after the frisky maidens. Miss Melbury had been informed by +Marty South during the day of the proposed peep into futurity, and, +being only a girl like the rest, she was sufficiently interested to +wish to see the issue. The moon was so bright and the night so calm +that she had no difficulty in persuading Mrs. Melbury to accompany her; +and thus, joined by Marty, these went onward in the same direction. + +Passing Winterborne’s house, they heard a noise of hammering. Marty +explained it. This was the last night on which his paternal roof would +shelter him, the days of grace since it fell into hand having expired; +and Giles was taking down his cupboards and bedsteads with a view to an +early exit next morning. His encounter with Mrs. Charmond had cost him +dearly. + +When they had proceeded a little farther Marty was joined by Grammer +Oliver (who was as young as the youngest in such matters), and Grace +and Mrs. Melbury went on by themselves till they had arrived at the +spot chosen by the village daughters, whose primary intention of +keeping their expedition a secret had been quite defeated. Grace and +her step-mother paused by a holly-tree; and at a little distance stood +Fitzpiers under the shade of a young oak, intently observing Grace, who +was in the full rays of the moon. + +He watched her without speaking, and unperceived by any but Marty and +Grammer, who had drawn up on the dark side of the same holly which +sheltered Mrs. and Miss Melbury on its bright side. The two former +conversed in low tones. + +“If they two come up in Wood next Midsummer Night they’ll come as one,” +said Grammer, signifying Fitzpiers and Grace. “Instead of my +skellington he’ll carry home her living carcass before long. But though +she’s a lady in herself, and worthy of any such as he, it do seem to me +that he ought to marry somebody more of the sort of Mrs. Charmond, and +that Miss Grace should make the best of Winterborne.” + +Marty returned no comment; and at that minute the girls, some of whom +were from Great Hintock, were seen advancing to work the incantation, +it being now about midnight. + +“Directly we see anything we’ll run home as fast as we can,” said one, +whose courage had begun to fail her. To this the rest assented, not +knowing that a dozen neighbors lurked in the bushes around. + +“I wish we had not thought of trying this,” said another, “but had +contented ourselves with the hole-digging to-morrow at twelve, and +hearing our husbands’ trades. It is too much like having dealings with +the Evil One to try to raise their forms.” + +However, they had gone too far to recede, and slowly began to march +forward in a skirmishing line through the trees towards the deeper +recesses of the wood. As far as the listeners could gather, the +particular form of black-art to be practised on this occasion was one +connected with the sowing of hemp-seed, a handful of which was carried +by each girl. At the moment of their advance they looked back, and +discerned the figure of Miss Melbury, who, alone of all the observers, +stood in the full face of the moonlight, deeply engrossed in the +proceedings. By contrast with her life of late years they made her feel +as if she had receded a couple of centuries in the world’s history. She +was rendered doubly conspicuous by her light dress, and after a few +whispered words, one of the girls—a bouncing maiden, plighted to young +Timothy Tangs—asked her if she would join in. Grace, with some +excitement, said that she would, and moved on a little in the rear of +the rest. + +Soon the listeners could hear nothing of their proceedings beyond the +faintest occasional rustle of leaves. Grammer whispered again to Marty: +“Why didn’t ye go and try your luck with the rest of the maids?” + +“I don’t believe in it,” said Marty, shortly. + +“Why, half the parish is here—the silly hussies should have kept it +quiet. I see Mr. Winterborne through the leaves, just come up with +Robert Creedle. Marty, we ought to act the part o’ Providence +sometimes. Do go and tell him that if he stands just behind the bush at +the bottom of the slope, Miss Grace must pass down it when she comes +back, and she will most likely rush into his arms; for as soon as the +clock strikes, they’ll bundle back home—along like hares. I’ve seen +such larries before.” + +“Do you think I’d better?” said Marty, reluctantly. + +“Oh yes, he’ll bless ye for it.” + +“I don’t want that kind of blessing.” But after a moment’s thought she +went and delivered the information; and Grammer had the satisfaction of +seeing Giles walk slowly to the bend in the leafy defile along which +Grace would have to return. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Melbury, deserted by Grace, had perceived Fitzpiers and +Winterborne, and also the move of the latter. An improvement on +Grammer’s idea entered the mind of Mrs. Melbury, for she had lately +discerned what her husband had not—that Grace was rapidly fascinating +the surgeon. She therefore drew near to Fitzpiers. + +“You should be where Mr. Winterborne is standing,” she said to him, +significantly. “She will run down through that opening much faster than +she went up it, if she is like the rest of the girls.” + +Fitzpiers did not require to be told twice. He went across to +Winterborne and stood beside him. Each knew the probable purpose of the +other in standing there, and neither spoke, Fitzpiers scorning to look +upon Winterborne as a rival, and Winterborne adhering to the off-hand +manner of indifference which had grown upon him since his dismissal. + +Neither Grammer nor Marty South had seen the surgeon’s manoeuvre, and, +still to help Winterborne, as she supposed, the old woman suggested to +the wood-girl that she should walk forward at the heels of Grace, and +“tole” her down the required way if she showed a tendency to run in +another direction. Poor Marty, always doomed to sacrifice desire to +obligation, walked forward accordingly, and waited as a beacon, still +and silent, for the retreat of Grace and her giddy companions, now +quite out of hearing. + +The first sound to break the silence was the distant note of Great +Hintock clock striking the significant hour. About a minute later that +quarter of the wood to which the girls had wandered resounded with the +flapping of disturbed birds; then two or three hares and rabbits +bounded down the glade from the same direction, and after these the +rustling and crackling of leaves and dead twigs denoted the hurried +approach of the adventurers, whose fluttering gowns soon became +visible. Miss Melbury, having gone forward quite in the rear of the +rest, was one of the first to return, and the excitement being +contagious, she ran laughing towards Marty, who still stood as a +hand-post to guide her; then, passing on, she flew round the fatal bush +where the undergrowth narrowed to a gorge. Marty arrived at her heels +just in time to see the result. Fitzpiers had quickly stepped forward +in front of Winterborne, who, disdaining to shift his position, had +turned on his heel, and then the surgeon did what he would not have +thought of doing but for Mrs. Melbury’s encouragement and the sentiment +of an eve which effaced conventionality. Stretching out his arms as the +white figure burst upon him, he captured her in a moment, as if she had +been a bird. + +“Oh!” cried Grace, in her fright. + +“You are in my arms, dearest,” said Fitzpiers, “and I am going to claim +you, and keep you there all our two lives!” + +She rested on him like one utterly mastered, and it was several seconds +before she recovered from this helplessness. Subdued screams and +struggles, audible from neighboring brakes, revealed that there had +been other lurkers thereabout for a similar purpose. Grace, unlike most +of these companions of hers, instead of gasping and writhing, said in a +trembling voice, “Mr. Fitzpiers, will you let me go?” + +“Certainly,” he said, laughing; “as soon as you have recovered.” + +She waited another few moments, then quietly and firmly pushed him +aside, and glided on her path, the moon whitening her hot blush away. +But it had been enough—new relations between them had begun. + +The case of the other girls was different, as has been said. They +wrestled and tittered, only escaping after a desperate struggle. +Fitzpiers could hear these enactments still going on after Grace had +left him, and he remained on the spot where he had caught her, +Winterborne having gone away. On a sudden another girl came bounding +down the same descent that had been followed by Grace—a fine-framed +young woman with naked arms. Seeing Fitzpiers standing there, she said, +with playful effrontery, “May’st kiss me if ‘canst catch me, Tim!” + +Fitzpiers recognized her as Suke Damson, a hoydenish damsel of the +hamlet, who was plainly mistaking him for her lover. He was impulsively +disposed to profit by her error, and as soon as she began racing away +he started in pursuit. + +On she went under the boughs, now in light, now in shade, looking over +her shoulder at him every few moments and kissing her hand; but so +cunningly dodging about among the trees and moon-shades that she never +allowed him to get dangerously near her. Thus they ran and doubled, +Fitzpiers warming with the chase, till the sound of their companions +had quite died away. He began to lose hope of ever overtaking her, when +all at once, by way of encouragement, she turned to a fence in which +there was a stile and leaped over it. Outside the scene was a changed +one—a meadow, where the half-made hay lay about in heaps, in the +uninterrupted shine of the now high moon. + +Fitzpiers saw in a moment that, having taken to open ground, she had +placed herself at his mercy, and he promptly vaulted over after her. +She flitted a little way down the mead, when all at once her light form +disappeared as if it had sunk into the earth. She had buried herself in +one of the hay-cocks. + +Fitzpiers, now thoroughly excited, was not going to let her escape him +thus. He approached, and set about turning over the heaps one by one. +As soon as he paused, tantalized and puzzled, he was directed anew by +an imitative kiss which came from her hiding-place, and by snatches of +a local ballad in the smallest voice she could assume: + +“O come in from the foggy, foggy dew.” + + +In a minute or two he uncovered her. + +“Oh, ’tis not Tim!” said she, burying her face. + +Fitzpiers, however, disregarded her resistance by reason of its +mildness, stooped and imprinted the purposed kiss, then sunk down on +the next hay-cock, panting with his race. + +“Whom do you mean by Tim?” he asked, presently. + +“My young man, Tim Tangs,” said she. + +“Now, honor bright, did you really think it was he?” + +“I did at first.” + +“But you didn’t at last?” + +“I didn’t at last.” + +“Do you much mind that it was not?” + +“No,” she answered, slyly. + +Fitzpiers did not pursue his questioning. In the moonlight Suke looked +very beautiful, the scratches and blemishes incidental to her out-door +occupation being invisible under these pale rays. While they remain +silent the coarse whir of the eternal night-jar burst sarcastically +from the top of a tree at the nearest corner of the wood. Besides this +not a sound of any kind reached their ears, the time of nightingales +being now past, and Hintock lying at a distance of two miles at least. +In the opposite direction the hay-field stretched away into remoteness +till it was lost to the eye in a soft mist. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +When the general stampede occurred Winterborne had also been looking +on, and encountering one of the girls, had asked her what caused them +all to fly. + +She said with solemn breathlessness that they had seen something very +different from what they had hoped to see, and that she for one would +never attempt such unholy ceremonies again. “We saw Satan pursuing us +with his hour-glass. It was terrible!” + +This account being a little incoherent, Giles went forward towards the +spot from which the girls had retreated. After listening there a few +minutes he heard slow footsteps rustling over the leaves, and looking +through a tangled screen of honeysuckle which hung from a bough, he saw +in the open space beyond a short stout man in evening-dress, carrying +on one arm a light overcoat and also his hat, so awkwardly arranged as +possibly to have suggested the “hour-glass” to his timid observers—if +this were the person whom the girls had seen. With the other hand he +silently gesticulated and the moonlight falling upon his bare brow +showed him to have dark hair and a high forehead of the shape seen +oftener in old prints and paintings than in real life. His curious and +altogether alien aspect, his strange gestures, like those of one who is +rehearsing a scene to himself, and the unusual place and hour, were +sufficient to account for any trepidation among the Hintock daughters +at encountering him. + +He paused, and looked round, as if he had forgotten where he was; not +observing Giles, who was of the color of his environment. The latter +advanced into the light. The gentleman held up his hand and came +towards Giles, the two meeting half-way. + +“I have lost my way,” said the stranger. “Perhaps you can put me in the +path again.” He wiped his forehead with the air of one suffering under +an agitation more than that of simple fatigue. + +“The turnpike-road is over there,” said Giles + +“I don’t want the turnpike-road,” said the gentleman, impatiently. “I +came from that. I want Hintock House. Is there not a path to it across +here?” + +“Well, yes, a sort of path. But it is hard to find from this point. +I’ll show you the way, sir, with great pleasure.” + +“Thanks, my good friend. The truth is that I decided to walk across the +country after dinner from the hotel at Sherton, where I am staying for +a day or two. But I did not know it was so far.” + +“It is about a mile to the house from here.” + +They walked on together. As there was no path, Giles occasionally +stepped in front and bent aside the underboughs of the trees to give +his companion a passage, saying every now and then when the twigs, on +being released, flew back like whips, “Mind your eyes, sir.” To which +the stranger replied, “Yes, yes,” in a preoccupied tone. + +So they went on, the leaf-shadows running in their usual quick +succession over the forms of the pedestrians, till the stranger said, + +“Is it far?” + +“Not much farther,” said Winterborne. “The plantation runs up into a +corner here, close behind the house.” He added with hesitation, “You +know, I suppose, sir, that Mrs. Charmond is not at home?” + +“You mistake,” said the other, quickly. “Mrs. Charmond has been away +for some time, but she’s at home now.” + +Giles did not contradict him, though he felt sure that the gentleman +was wrong. + +“You are a native of this place?” the stranger said. + +“Yes.” + +“Well, you are happy in having a home. It is what I don’t possess.” + +“You come from far, seemingly?” + +“I come now from the south of Europe.” + +“Oh, indeed, sir. You are an Italian, or Spanish, or French gentleman, +perhaps?” + +“I am not either.” + +Giles did not fill the pause which ensued, and the gentleman, who +seemed of an emotional nature, unable to resist friendship, at length +answered the question. + +“I am an Italianized American, a South Carolinian by birth,” he said. +“I left my native country on the failure of the Southern cause, and +have never returned to it since.” + +He spoke no more about himself, and they came to the verge of the wood. +Here, striding over the fence out upon the upland sward, they could at +once see the chimneys of the house in the gorge immediately beneath +their position, silent, still, and pale. + +“Can you tell me the time?” the gentleman asked. “My watch has +stopped.” + +“It is between twelve and one,” said Giles. + +His companion expressed his astonishment. “I thought it between nine +and ten at latest! Dear me—dear me!” + +He now begged Giles to return, and offered him a gold coin, which +looked like a sovereign, for the assistance rendered. Giles declined to +accept anything, to the surprise of the stranger, who, on putting the +money back into his pocket, said, awkwardly, “I offered it because I +want you to utter no word about this meeting with me. Will you +promise?” + +Winterborne promised readily. He thereupon stood still while the other +ascended the slope. At the bottom he looked back dubiously. Giles would +no longer remain when he was so evidently desired to leave, and +returned through the boughs to Hintock. + +He suspected that this man, who seemed so distressed and melancholy, +might be that lover and persistent wooer of Mrs. Charmond whom he had +heard so frequently spoken of, and whom it was said she had treated +cavalierly. But he received no confirmation of his suspicion beyond a +report which reached him a few days later that a gentleman had called +up the servants who were taking care of Hintock House at an hour past +midnight; and on learning that Mrs. Charmond, though returned from +abroad, was as yet in London, he had sworn bitterly, and gone away +without leaving a card or any trace of himself. + +The girls who related the story added that he sighed three times before +he swore, but this part of the narrative was not corroborated. Anyhow, +such a gentleman had driven away from the hotel at Sherton next day in +a carriage hired at that inn. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +The sunny, leafy week which followed the tender doings of Midsummer Eve +brought a visitor to Fitzpiers’s door; a voice that he knew sounded in +the passage. Mr. Melbury had called. At first he had a particular +objection to enter the parlor, because his boots were dusty, but as the +surgeon insisted he waived the point and came in. + +Looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at Fitzpiers +himself, he put his hat under his chair, and with a preoccupied gaze at +the floor, he said, “I’ve called to ask you, doctor, quite privately, a +question that troubles me. I’ve a daughter, Grace, an only daughter, as +you may have heard. Well, she’s been out in the dew—on Midsummer Eve in +particular she went out in thin slippers to watch some vagary of the +Hintock maids—and she’s got a cough, a distinct hemming and hacking, +that makes me uneasy. Now, I have decided to send her away to some +seaside place for a change—” + +“Send her away!” Fitzpiers’s countenance had fallen. + +“Yes. And the question is, where would you advise me to send her?” + +The timber-merchant had happened to call at a moment when Fitzpiers was +at the spring-tide of a sentiment that Grace was a necessity of his +existence. The sudden pressure of her form upon his breast as she came +headlong round the bush had never ceased to linger with him, ever since +he adopted the manoeuvre for which the hour and the moonlight and the +occasion had been the only excuse. Now she was to be sent away. +Ambition? it could be postponed. Family? culture and reciprocity of +tastes had taken the place of family nowadays. He allowed himself to be +carried forward on the wave of his desire. + +“How strange, how very strange it is,” he said, “that you should have +come to me about her just now. I have been thinking every day of coming +to you on the very same errand.” + +“Ah!—you have noticed, too, that her health——” + +“I have noticed nothing the matter with her health, because there is +nothing. But, Mr. Melbury, I have seen your daughter several times by +accident. I have admired her infinitely, and I was coming to ask you if +I may become better acquainted with her—pay my addresses to her?” + +Melbury was looking down as he listened, and did not see the air of +half-misgiving at his own rashness that spread over Fitzpiers’s face as +he made this declaration. + +“You have—got to know her?” said Melbury, a spell of dead silence +having preceded his utterance, during which his emotion rose with +almost visible effect. + +“Yes,” said Fitzpiers. + +“And you wish to become better acquainted with her? You mean with a +view to marriage—of course that is what you mean?” + +“Yes,” said the young man. “I mean, get acquainted with her, with a +view to being her accepted lover; and if we suited each other, what +would naturally follow.” + +The timber-merchant was much surprised, and fairly agitated; his hand +trembled as he laid by his walking-stick. “This takes me unawares,” +said he, his voice wellnigh breaking down. “I don’t mean that there is +anything unexpected in a gentleman being attracted by her; but it did +not occur to me that it would be you. I always said,” continued he, +with a lump in his throat, “that my Grace would make a mark at her own +level some day. That was why I educated her. I said to myself, ‘I’ll do +it, cost what it may;’ though her mother-law was pretty frightened at +my paying out so much money year after year. I knew it would tell in +the end. ‘Where you’ve not good material to work on, such doings would +be waste and vanity,’ I said. ‘But where you have that material it is +sure to be worth while.’” + +“I am glad you don’t object,” said Fitzpiers, almost wishing that Grace +had not been quite so cheap for him. + +“If she is willing I don’t object, certainly. Indeed,” added the honest +man, “it would be deceit if I were to pretend to feel anything else +than highly honored personally; and it is a great credit to her to have +drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable old +family. That huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about her! +Take her and welcome, sir.” + +“I’ll endeavor to ascertain her mind.” + +“Yes, yes. But she will be agreeable, I should think. She ought to be.” + +“I hope she may. Well, now you’ll expect to see me frequently.” + +“Oh yes. But, name it all—about her cough, and her going away. I had +quite forgot that that was what I came about.” + +“I assure you,” said the surgeon, “that her cough can only be the +result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any +seaside place at all.” + +Melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take +Fitzpiers’s professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led +him to wish to keep her there. The doctor saw this, and honestly +dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, “Between ourselves, if +I am successful with her I will take her away myself for a month or +two, as soon as we are married, which I hope will be before the chilly +weather comes on. This will be so very much better than letting her go +now.” + +The proposal pleased Melbury much. There could be hardly any danger in +postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather +lasted, and for such a reason. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said, +“Your time must be precious, doctor. I’ll get home-along. I am much +obliged to ye. As you will see her often, you’ll discover for yourself +if anything serious is the matter.” + +“I can assure you it is nothing,” said Fitzpiers, who had seen Grace +much oftener already than her father knew of. + +When he was gone Fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations, +like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he +knows not the density or temperature. But he had done it, and Grace was +the sweetest girl alive. + +As for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in Melbury’s +ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the +emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a +dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of whose practice +was more than compensated by the former greatness of his family. He had +uttered thoughts before they were weighed, and almost before they were +shaped. They had expressed in a certain sense his feeling at +Fitzpiers’s news, but yet they were not right. Looking on the ground, +and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flag-staff, he +reached his own precincts, where, as he passed through the court, he +automatically stopped to look at the men working in the shed and +around. One of them asked him a question about wagon-spokes. + +“Hey?” said Melbury, looking hard at him. The man repeated the words. + +Melbury stood; then turning suddenly away without answering, he went up +the court and entered the house. As time was no object with the +journeymen, except as a thing to get past, they leisurely surveyed the +door through which he had disappeared. + +“What maggot has the gaffer got in his head now?” said Tangs the elder. +“Sommit to do with that chiel of his! When you’ve got a maid of yer +own, John Upjohn, that costs ye what she costs him, that will take the +squeak out of your Sunday shoes, John! But you’ll never be tall enough +to accomplish such as she; and ’tis a lucky thing for ye, John, as +things be. Well, he ought to have a dozen—that would bring him to +reason. I see ’em walking together last Sunday, and when they came to a +puddle he lifted her over like a halfpenny doll. He ought to have a +dozen; he’d let ’em walk through puddles for themselves then.” + +Meanwhile Melbury had entered the house with the look of a man who sees +a vision before him. His wife was in the room. Without taking off his +hat he sat down at random. + +“Luce—we’ve done it!” he said. “Yes—the thing is as I expected. The +spell, that I foresaw might be worked, has worked. She’s done it, and +done it well. Where is she—Grace, I mean?” + +“Up in her room—what has happened!” + +Mr. Melbury explained the circumstances as coherently as he could. “I +told you so,” he said. “A maid like her couldn’t stay hid long, even in +a place like this. But where is Grace? Let’s have her down. +Here—Gra-a-ace!” + +She appeared after a reasonable interval, for she was sufficiently +spoiled by this father of hers not to put herself in a hurry, however +impatient his tones. “What is it, father?” said she, with a smile. + +“Why, you scamp, what’s this you’ve been doing? Not home here more than +six months, yet, instead of confining yourself to your father’s rank, +making havoc in the educated classes.” + +Though accustomed to show herself instantly appreciative of her +father’s meanings, Grace was fairly unable to look anyhow but at a loss +now. + +“No, no—of course you don’t know what I mean, or you pretend you don’t; +though, for my part, I believe women can see these things through a +double hedge. But I suppose I must tell ye. Why, you’ve flung your +grapnel over the doctor, and he’s coming courting forthwith.” + +“Only think of that, my dear! Don’t you feel it a triumph?” said Mrs. +Melbury. + +“Coming courting! I’ve done nothing to make him,” Grace exclaimed. + +“’Twasn’t necessary that you should, ’Tis voluntary that rules in these +things....Well, he has behaved very honorably, and asked my consent. +You’ll know what to do when he gets here, I dare say. I needn’t tell +you to make it all smooth for him.” + +“You mean, to lead him on to marry me?” + +“I do. Haven’t I educated you for it?” + +Grace looked out of the window and at the fireplace with no animation +in her face. “Why is it settled off-hand in this way?” said she, +coquettishly. “You’ll wait till you hear what I think of him, I +suppose?” + +“Oh yes, of course. But you see what a good thing it will be.” + +She weighed the statement without speaking. + +“You will be restored to the society you’ve been taken away from,” +continued her father; “for I don’t suppose he’ll stay here long.” + +She admitted the advantage; but it was plain that though Fitzpiers +exercised a certain fascination over her when he was present, or even +more, an almost psychic influence, and though his impulsive act in the +wood had stirred her feelings indescribably, she had never regarded him +in the light of a destined husband. “I don’t know what to answer,” she +said. “I have learned that he is very clever.” + +“He’s all right, and he’s coming here to see you.” + +A premonition that she could not resist him if he came strangely moved +her. “Of course, father, you remember that it is only lately that +Giles—” + +“You know that you can’t think of him. He has given up all claim to +you.” + +She could not explain the subtleties of her feeling as he could state +his opinion, even though she had skill in speech, and her father had +none. That Fitzpiers acted upon her like a dram, exciting her, throwing +her into a novel atmosphere which biassed her doings until the +influence was over, when she felt something of the nature of regret for +the mood she had experienced—still more if she reflected on the silent, +almost sarcastic, criticism apparent in Winterborne’s air towards +her—could not be told to this worthy couple in words. + +It so happened that on this very day Fitzpiers was called away from +Hintock by an engagement to attend some medical meetings, and his +visits, therefore, did not begin at once. A note, however, arrived from +him addressed to Grace, deploring his enforced absence. As a material +object this note was pretty and superfine, a note of a sort that she +had been unaccustomed to see since her return to Hintock, except when a +school friend wrote to her—a rare instance, for the girls were +respecters of persons, and many cooled down towards the timber-dealer’s +daughter when she was out of sight. Thus the receipt of it pleased her, +and she afterwards walked about with a reflective air. + +In the evening her father, who knew that the note had come, said, “Why +be ye not sitting down to answer your letter? That’s what young folks +did in my time.” + +She replied that it did not require an answer. + +“Oh, you know best,” he said. Nevertheless, he went about his business +doubting if she were right in not replying; possibly she might be so +mismanaging matters as to risk the loss of an alliance which would +bring her much happiness. + +Melbury’s respect for Fitzpiers was based less on his professional +position, which was not much, than on the standing of his family in the +county in by-gone days. That implicit faith in members of +long-established families, as such, irrespective of their personal +condition or character, which is still found among old-fashioned people +in the rural districts reached its full intensity in Melbury. His +daughter’s suitor was descended from a family he had heard of in his +grandfather’s time as being once great, a family which had conferred +its name upon a neighboring village; how, then, could anything be amiss +in this betrothal? + +“I must keep her up to this,” he said to his wife. “She sees it is for +her happiness; but still she’s young, and may want a little prompting +from an older tongue.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +With this in view he took her out for a walk, a custom of his when he +wished to say anything specially impressive. Their way was over the top +of that lofty ridge dividing their woodland from the cider district, +whence they had in the spring beheld the miles of apple-trees in bloom. +All was now deep green. The spot recalled to Grace’s mind the last +occasion of her presence there, and she said, “The promise of an +enormous apple-crop is fulfilling itself, is it not? I suppose Giles is +getting his mills and presses ready.” + +This was just what her father had not come there to talk about. Without +replying he raised his arm, and moved his finger till he fixed it at a +point. “There,” he said, “you see that plantation reaching over the +hill like a great slug, and just behind the hill a particularly green +sheltered bottom? That’s where Mr. Fitzpiers’s family were lords of the +manor for I don’t know how many hundred years, and there stands the +village of Buckbury Fitzpiers. A wonderful property ’twas—wonderful!” + +“But they are not lords of the manor there now.” + +“Why, no. But good and great things die as well as little and foolish. +The only ones representing the family now, I believe, are our doctor +and a maiden lady living I don’t know where. You can’t help being +happy, Grace, in allying yourself with such a romantical family. You’ll +feel as if you’ve stepped into history.” + +“We’ve been at Hintock as long as they’ve been at Buckbury; is it not +so? You say our name occurs in old deeds continually.” + +“Oh yes—as yeomen, copyholders, and such like. But think how much +better this will be for ’ee. You’ll be living a high intellectual life, +such as has now become natural to you; and though the doctor’s practice +is small here, he’ll no doubt go to a dashing town when he’s got his +hand in, and keep a stylish carriage, and you’ll be brought to know a +good many ladies of excellent society. If you should ever meet me then, +Grace, you can drive past me, looking the other way. I shouldn’t expect +you to speak to me, or wish such a thing, unless it happened to be in +some lonely, private place where ’twouldn’t lower ye at all. Don’t +think such men as neighbor Giles your equal. He and I shall be good +friends enough, but he’s not for the like of you. He’s lived our rough +and homely life here, and his wife’s life must be rough and homely +likewise.” + +So much pressure could not but produce some displacement. As Grace was +left very much to herself, she took advantage of one fine day before +Fitzpiers’s return to drive into the aforesaid vale where stood the +village of Buckbury Fitzpiers. Leaving her father’s man at the inn with +the horse and gig, she rambled onward to the ruins of a castle, which +stood in a field hard by. She had no doubt that it represented the +ancient stronghold of the Fitzpiers family. + +The remains were few, and consisted mostly of remnants of the lower +vaulting, supported on low stout columns surmounted by the _crochet_ +capital of the period. The two or three arches of these vaults that +were still in position were utilized by the adjoining farmer as shelter +for his calves, the floor being spread with straw, amid which the young +creatures rustled, cooling their thirsty tongues by licking the quaint +Norman carving, which glistened with the moisture. It was a degradation +of even such a rude form of art as this to be treatad so grossly, she +thought, and for the first time the family of Fitzpiers assumed in her +imagination the hues of a melancholy romanticism. + +It was soon time to drive home, and she traversed the distance with a +preoccupied mind. The idea of so modern a man in science and aesthetics +as the young surgeon springing out of relics so ancient was a kind of +novelty she had never before experienced. The combination lent him a +social and intellectual interest which she dreaded, so much weight did +it add to the strange influence he exercised upon her whenever he came +near her. + +In an excitement which was not love, not ambition, rather a fearful +consciousness of hazard in the air, she awaited his return. + +Meanwhile her father was awaiting him also. In his house there was an +old work on medicine, published towards the end of the last century, +and to put himself in harmony with events Melbury spread this work on +his knees when he had done his day’s business, and read about Galen, +Hippocrates, and Herophilus—of the dogmatic, the empiric, the +hermetical, and other sects of practitioners that have arisen in +history; and thence proceeded to the classification of maladies and the +rules for their treatment, as laid down in this valuable book with +absolute precision. Melbury regretted that the treatise was so old, +fearing that he might in consequence be unable to hold as complete a +conversation as he could wish with Mr. Fitzpiers, primed, no doubt, +with more recent discoveries. + +The day of Fitzpiers’s return arrived, and he sent to say that he would +call immediately. In the little time that was afforded for putting the +house in order the sweeping of Melbury’s parlor was as the sweeping of +the parlor at the Interpreter’s which wellnigh choked the Pilgrim. At +the end of it Mrs. Melbury sat down, folded her hands and lips, and +waited. Her husband restlessly walked in and out from the timber-yard, +stared at the interior of the room, jerked out “ay, ay,” and retreated +again. Between four and five Fitzpiers arrived, hitching his horse to +the hook outside the door. + +As soon as he had walked in and perceived that Grace was not in the +room, he seemed to have a misgiving. Nothing less than her actual +presence could long keep him to the level of this impassioned +enterprise, and that lacking he appeared as one who wished to retrace +his steps. + +He mechanically talked at what he considered a woodland matron’s level +of thought till a rustling was heard on the stairs, and Grace came in. +Fitzpiers was for once as agitated as she. Over and above the genuine +emotion which she raised in his heart there hung the sense that he was +casting a die by impulse which he might not have thrown by judgment. + +Mr. Melbury was not in the room. Having to attend to matters in the +yard, he had delayed putting on his afternoon coat and waistcoat till +the doctor’s appearance, when, not wishing to be backward in receiving +him, he entered the parlor hastily buttoning up those garments. Grace’s +fastidiousness was a little distressed that Fitzpiers should see by +this action the strain his visit was putting upon her father; and to +make matters worse for her just then, old Grammer seemed to have a +passion for incessantly pumping in the back kitchen, leaving the doors +open so that the banging and splashing were distinct above the parlor +conversation. + +Whenever the chat over the tea sank into pleasant desultoriness Mr. +Melbury broke in with speeches of labored precision on very remote +topics, as if he feared to let Fitzpiers’s mind dwell critically on the +subject nearest the hearts of all. In truth a constrained manner was +natural enough in Melbury just now, for the greatest interest of his +life was reaching its crisis. Could the real have been beheld instead +of the corporeal merely, the corner of the room in which he sat would +have been filled with a form typical of anxious suspense, large-eyed, +tight-lipped, awaiting the issue. That paternal hopes and fears so +intense should be bound up in the person of one child so peculiarly +circumstanced, and not have dispersed themselves over the larger field +of a whole family, involved dangerous risks to future happiness. + +Fitzpiers did not stay more than an hour, but that time had apparently +advanced his sentiments towards Grace, once and for all, from a vaguely +liquescent to an organic shape. She would not have accompanied him to +the door in response to his whispered “Come!” if her mother had not +said in a matter-of-fact way, “Of course, Grace; go to the door with +Mr. Fitzpiers.” Accordingly Grace went, both her parents remaining in +the room. When the young pair were in the great brick-floored hall the +lover took the girl’s hand in his, drew it under his arm, and thus led +her on to the door, where he stealthily kissed her. + +She broke from him trembling, blushed and turned aside, hardly knowing +how things had advanced to this. Fitzpiers drove off, kissing his hand +to her, and waving it to Melbury who was visible through the window. +Her father returned the surgeon’s action with a great flourish of his +own hand and a satisfied smile. + +The intoxication that Fitzpiers had, as usual, produced in Grace’s +brain during the visit passed off somewhat with his withdrawal. She +felt like a woman who did not know what she had been doing for the +previous hour, but supposed with trepidation that the afternoon’s +proceedings, though vague, had amounted to an engagement between +herself and the handsome, coercive, irresistible Fitzpiers. + +This visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summer +days of that year. Grace was borne along upon a stream of reasonings, +arguments, and persuasions, supplemented, it must be added, by +inclinations of her own at times. No woman is without aspirations, +which may be innocent enough within certain limits; and Grace had been +so trained socially, and educated intellectually, as to see clearly +enough a pleasure in the position of wife to such a man as Fitzpiers. +His material standing of itself, either present or future, had little +in it to give her ambition, but the possibilities of a refined and +cultivated inner life, of subtle psychological intercourse, had their +charm. It was this rather than any vulgar idea of marrying well which +caused her to float with the current, and to yield to the immense +influence which Fitzpiers exercised over her whenever she shared his +society. + +Any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not she +loved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so in +time. + +One evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walk +together, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberies +of Hintock House—still deserted, and still blankly confronting with its +sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes. Grace +was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on one of the +stone sills—still warm with the sun that had been pouring its rays upon +them all the afternoon. + +“This place would just do for us, would it not, dearest,” said her +betrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade. + +“Oh yes,” said Grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had ever +crossed her mind. “She is away from home still,” Grace added in a +minute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehow +lost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower. + +“Who is?—oh, you mean Mrs. Charmond. Do you know, dear, that at one +time I thought you lived here.” + +“Indeed!” said Grace. “How was that?” + +He explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning his +disappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on: “Well, +never mind that. Now I want to ask you something. There is one detail +of our wedding which I am sure you will leave to me. My inclination is +not to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokels +staring round at us, and a droning parson reading.” + +“Where, then, can it be? At a church in town?” + +“No. Not at a church at all. At a registry office. It is a quieter, +snugger, and more convenient place in every way.” + +“Oh,” said she, with real distress. “How can I be married except at +church, and with all my dear friends round me?” + +“Yeoman Winterborne among them.” + +“Yes—why not? You know there was nothing serious between him and me.” + +“You see, dear, a noisy bell-ringing marriage at church has this +objection in our case: it would be a thing of report a long way round. +Now I would gently, as gently as possible, indicate to you how +inadvisable such publicity would be if we leave Hintock, and I purchase +the practice that I contemplate purchasing at Budmouth—hardly more than +twenty miles off. Forgive my saying that it will be far better if +nobody there knows where you come from, nor anything about your +parents. Your beauty and knowledge and manners will carry you anywhere +if you are not hampered by such retrospective criticism.” + +“But could it not be a quiet ceremony, even at church?” she pleaded. + +“I don’t see the necessity of going there!” he said, a trifle +impatiently. “Marriage is a civil contract, and the shorter and simpler +it is made the better. People don’t go to church when they take a +house, or even when they make a will.” + +“Oh, Edgar—I don’t like to hear you speak like that.” + +“Well, well—I didn’t mean to. But I have mentioned as much to your +father, who has made no objection; and why should you?” + +She gave way, deeming the point one on which she ought to allow +sentiment to give way to policy—if there were indeed policy in his +plan. But she was indefinably depressed as they walked homeward. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +He left her at the door of her father’s house. As he receded, and was +clasped out of sight by the filmy shades, he impressed Grace as a man +who hardly appertained to her existence at all. Cleverer, greater than +herself, one outside her mental orbit, as she considered him, he seemed +to be her ruler rather than her equal, protector, and dear familiar +friend. + +The disappointment she had experienced at his wish, the shock given to +her girlish sensibilities by his irreverent views of marriage, together +with the sure and near approach of the day fixed for committing her +future to his keeping, made her so restless that she could scarcely +sleep at all that night. She rose when the sparrows began to walk out +of the roof-holes, sat on the floor of her room in the dim light, and +by-and-by peeped out behind the window-curtains. It was even now day +out-of-doors, though the tones of morning were feeble and wan, and it +was long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed vale. +Not a sound came from any of the out-houses as yet. The tree-trunks, +the road, the out-buildings, the garden, every object wore that aspect +of mesmeric fixity which the suspensive quietude of daybreak lends to +such scenes. Outside her window helpless immobility seemed to be +combined with intense consciousness; a meditative inertness possessed +all things, oppressively contrasting with her own active emotions. +Beyond the road were some cottage roofs and orchards; over these roofs +and over the apple-trees behind, high up the slope, and backed by the +plantation on the crest, was the house yet occupied by her future +husband, the rough-cast front showing whitely through its creepers. The +window-shutters were closed, the bedroom curtains closely drawn, and +not the thinnest coil of smoke rose from the rugged chimneys. + +Something broke the stillness. The front door of the house she was +gazing at opened softly, and there came out into the porch a female +figure, wrapped in a large shawl, beneath which was visible the white +skirt of a long loose garment. A gray arm, stretching from within the +porch, adjusted the shawl over the woman’s shoulders; it was withdrawn +and disappeared, the door closing behind her. + +The woman went quickly down the box-edged path between the raspberries +and currants, and as she walked her well-developed form and gait +betrayed her individuality. It was Suke Damson, the affianced one of +simple young Tim Tangs. At the bottom of the garden she entered the +shelter of the tall hedge, and only the top of her head could be seen +hastening in the direction of her own dwelling. + +Grace had recognized, or thought she recognized, in the gray arm +stretching from the porch, the sleeve of a dressing-gown which Mr. +Fitzpiers had been wearing on her own memorable visit to him. Her face +fired red. She had just before thought of dressing herself and taking a +lonely walk under the trees, so coolly green this early morning; but +she now sat down on her bed and fell into reverie. It seemed as if +hardly any time had passed when she heard the household moving briskly +about, and breakfast preparing down-stairs; though, on rousing herself +to robe and descend, she found that the sun was throwing his rays +completely over the tree-tops, a progress of natural phenomena denoting +that at least three hours had elapsed since she last looked out of the +window. + +When attired she searched about the house for her father; she found him +at last in the garden, stooping to examine the potatoes for signs of +disease. Hearing her rustle, he stood up and stretched his back and +arms, saying, “Morning t’ye, Gracie. I congratulate ye. It is only a +month to-day to the time!” + +She did not answer, but, without lifting her dress, waded between the +dewy rows of tall potato-green into the middle of the plot where he +was. + +“I have been thinking very much about my position this morning—ever +since it was light,” she began, excitedly, and trembling so that she +could hardly stand. “And I feel it is a false one. I wish not to marry +Mr. Fitzpiers. I wish not to marry anybody; but I’ll marry Giles +Winterborne if you say I must as an alternative.” + +Her father’s face settled into rigidity, he turned pale, and came +deliberately out of the plot before he answered her. She had never seen +him look so incensed before. + +“Now, hearken to me,” he said. “There’s a time for a woman to alter her +mind; and there’s a time when she can no longer alter it, if she has +any right eye to her parents’ honor and the seemliness of things. That +time has come. I won’t say to ye, you _shall_ marry him. But I will say +that if you refuse, I shall forever be ashamed and a-weary of ye as a +daughter, and shall look upon you as the hope of my life no more. What +do you know about life and what it can bring forth, and how you ought +to act to lead up to best ends? Oh, you are an ungrateful maid, Grace; +you’ve seen that fellow Giles, and he has got over ye; that’s where the +secret lies, I’ll warrant me!” + +“No, father, no! It is not Giles—it is something I cannot tell you of—” + +“Well, make fools of us all; make us laughing-stocks; break it off; +have your own way.” + +“But who knows of the engagement as yet? how can breaking it disgrace +you?” + +Melbury then by degrees admitted that he had mentioned the engagement +to this acquaintance and to that, till she perceived that in his +restlessness and pride he had published it everywhere. She went +dismally away to a bower of laurel at the top of the garden. Her father +followed her. + +“It is that Giles Winterborne!” he said, with an upbraiding gaze at +her. + +“No, it is not; though for that matter you encouraged him once,” she +said, troubled to the verge of despair. “It is not Giles, it is Mr. +Fitzpiers.” + +“You’ve had a tiff—a lovers’ tiff—that’s all, I suppose!” + +“It is some woman—” + +“Ay, ay; you are jealous. The old story. Don’t tell me. Now do you bide +here. I’ll send Fitzpiers to you. I saw him smoking in front of his +house but a minute by-gone.” + +He went off hastily out of the garden-gate and down the lane. But she +would not stay where she was; and edging through a slit in the +garden-fence, walked away into the wood. Just about here the trees were +large and wide apart, and there was no undergrowth, so that she could +be seen to some distance; a sylph-like, greenish-white creature, as +toned by the sunlight and leafage. She heard a foot-fall crushing dead +leaves behind her, and found herself reconnoitered by Fitzpiers +himself, approaching gay and fresh as the morning around them. + +His remote gaze at her had been one of mild interest rather than of +rapture. But she looked so lovely in the green world about her, her +pink cheeks, her simple light dress, and the delicate flexibility of +her movement acquired such rarity from their wild-wood setting, that +his eyes kindled as he drew near. + +“My darling, what is it? Your father says you are in the pouts, and +jealous, and I don’t know what. Ha! ha! ha! as if there were any rival +to you, except vegetable nature, in this home of recluses! We know +better.” + +“Jealous; oh no, it is not so,” said she, gravely. “That’s a mistake of +his and yours, sir. I spoke to him so closely about the question of +marriage with you that he did not apprehend my state of mind.” + +“But there’s something wrong—eh?” he asked, eying her narrowly, and +bending to kiss her. She shrank away, and his purposed kiss miscarried. + +“What is it?” he said, more seriously for this little defeat. + +She made no answer beyond, “Mr. Fitzpiers, I have had no breakfast, I +must go in.” + +“Come,” he insisted, fixing his eyes upon her. “Tell me at once, I +say.” + +It was the greater strength against the smaller; but she was mastered +less by his manner than by her own sense of the unfairness of silence. +“I looked out of the window,” she said, with hesitation. “I’ll tell you +by-and-by. I must go in-doors. I have had no breakfast.” + +By a sort of divination his conjecture went straight to the fact. “Nor +I,” said he, lightly. “Indeed, I rose late to-day. I have had a broken +night, or rather morning. A girl of the village—I don’t know her +name—came and rang at my bell as soon as it was light—between four and +five, I should think it was—perfectly maddened with an aching tooth. As +no-body heard her ring, she threw some gravel at my window, till at +last I heard her and slipped on my dressing-gown and went down. The +poor thing begged me with tears in her eyes to take out her tormentor, +if I dragged her head off. Down she sat and out it came—a lovely molar, +not a speck upon it; and off she went with it in her handkerchief, much +contented, though it would have done good work for her for fifty years +to come.” + +It was all so plausible—so completely explained. Knowing nothing of the +incident in the wood on old Midsummer-eve, Grace felt that her +suspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of an +honest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honoring his word. At the +moment of her mental liberation the bushes about the garden had moved, +and her father emerged into the shady glade. “Well, I hope it is made +up?” he said, cheerily. + +“Oh yes,” said Fitzpiers, with his eyes fixed on Grace, whose eyes were +shyly bent downward. + +“Now,” said her father, “tell me, the pair of ye, that you still mean +to take one another for good and all; and on the strength o’t you shall +have another couple of hundred paid down. I swear it by the name.” + +Fitzpiers took her hand. “We declare it, do we not, my dear Grace?” +said he. + +Relieved of her doubt, somewhat overawed, and ever anxious to please, +she was disposed to settle the matter; yet, womanlike, she would not +relinquish her opportunity of asking a concession of some sort. “If our +wedding can be at church, I say yes,” she answered, in a measured +voice. “If not, I say no.” + +Fitzpiers was generous in his turn. “It shall be so,” he rejoined, +gracefully. “To holy church we’ll go, and much good may it do us.” + +They returned through the bushes indoors, Grace walking, full of +thought between the other two, somewhat comforted, both by Fitzpiers’s +ingenious explanation and by the sense that she was not to be deprived +of a religious ceremony. “So let it be,” she said to herself. “Pray God +it is for the best.” + +From this hour there was no serious attempt at recalcitration on her +part. Fitzpiers kept himself continually near her, dominating any +rebellious impulse, and shaping her will into passive concurrence with +all his desires. Apart from his lover-like anxiety to possess her, the +few golden hundreds of the timber-dealer, ready to hand, formed a warm +background to Grace’s lovely face, and went some way to remove his +uneasiness at the prospect of endangering his professional and social +chances by an alliance with the family of a simple countryman. + +The interim closed up its perspective surely and silently. Whenever +Grace had any doubts of her position, the sense of contracting time was +like a shortening chamber: at other moments she was comparatively +blithe. Day after day waxed and waned; the one or two woodmen who +sawed, shaped, spokeshaved on her father’s premises at this inactive +season of the year, regularly came and unlocked the doors in the +morning, locked them in the evening, supped, leaned over their +garden-gates for a whiff of evening air, and to catch any last and +farthest throb of news from the outer world, which entered and expired +at Little Hintock like the exhausted swell of a wave in some innermost +cavern of some innermost creek of an embayed sea; yet no news +interfered with the nuptial purpose at their neighbor’s house. The +sappy green twig-tips of the season’s growth would not, she thought, be +appreciably woodier on the day she became a wife, so near was the time; +the tints of the foliage would hardly have changed. Everything was so +much as usual that no itinerant stranger would have supposed a woman’s +fate to be hanging in the balance at that summer’s decline. + +But there were preparations, imaginable readily enough by those who had +special knowledge. In the remote and fashionable town of Sandbourne +something was growing up under the hands of several persons who had +never seen Grace Melbury, never would see her, or care anything about +her at all, though their creation had such interesting relation to her +life that it would enclose her very heart at a moment when that heart +would beat, if not with more emotional ardor, at least with more +emotional turbulence than at any previous time. + +Why did Mrs. Dollery’s van, instead of passing along at the end of the +smaller village to Great Hintock direct, turn one Saturday night into +Little Hintock Lane, and never pull up till it reached Mr. Melbury’s +gates? The gilding shine of evening fell upon a large, flat box not +less than a yard square, and safely tied with cord, as it was handed +out from under the tilt with a great deal of care. But it was not heavy +for its size; Mrs. Dollery herself carried it into the house. Tim +Tangs, the hollow-turner, Bawtree, Suke Damson, and others, looked +knowing, and made remarks to each other as they watched its entrance. +Melbury stood at the door of the timber-shed in the attitude of a man +to whom such an arrival was a trifling domestic detail with which he +did not condescend to be concerned. Yet he well divined the contents of +that box, and was in truth all the while in a pleasant exaltation at +the proof that thus far, at any rate, no disappointment had supervened. +While Mrs. Dollery remained—which was rather long, from her sense of +the importance of her errand—he went into the out-house; but as soon as +she had had her say, been paid, and had rumbled away, he entered the +dwelling, to find there what he knew he should find—his wife and +daughter in a flutter of excitement over the wedding-gown, just arrived +from the leading dress-maker of Sandbourne watering-place aforesaid. + +During these weeks Giles Winterborne was nowhere to be seen or heard +of. At the close of his tenure in Hintock he had sold some of his +furniture, packed up the rest—a few pieces endeared by associations, or +necessary to his occupation—in the house of a friendly neighbor, and +gone away. People said that a certain laxity had crept into his life; +that he had never gone near a church latterly, and had been sometimes +seen on Sundays with unblacked boots, lying on his elbow under a tree, +with a cynical gaze at surrounding objects. He was likely to return to +Hintock when the cider-making season came round, his apparatus being +stored there, and travel with his mill and press from village to +village. + +The narrow interval that stood before the day diminished yet. There was +in Grace’s mind sometimes a certain anticipative satisfaction, the +satisfaction of feeling that she would be the heroine of an hour; +moreover, she was proud, as a cultivated woman, to be the wife of a +cultivated man. It was an opportunity denied very frequently to young +women in her position, nowadays not a few; those in whom parental +discovery of the value of education has implanted tastes which parental +circles fail to gratify. But what an attenuation was this cold pride of +the dream of her youth, in which she had pictured herself walking in +state towards the altar, flushed by the purple light and bloom of her +own passion, without a single misgiving as to the sealing of the bond, +and fervently receiving as her due + +“The homage of a thousand hearts; the fond, deep love of one.” + + +Everything had been clear then, in imagination; now something was +undefined. She had little carking anxieties; a curious fatefulness +seemed to rule her, and she experienced a mournful want of some one to +confide in. + +The day loomed so big and nigh that her prophetic ear could, in fancy, +catch the noise of it, hear the murmur of the villagers as she came out +of church, imagine the jangle of the three thin-toned Hintock bells. +The dialogues seemed to grow louder, and the ding-ding-dong of those +three crazed bells more persistent. She awoke: the morning had come. + +Five hours later she was the wife of Fitzpiers. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +The chief hotel at Sherton-Abbas was an old stone-fronted inn with a +yawning arch, under which vehicles were driven by stooping coachmen to +back premises of wonderful commodiousness. The windows to the street +were mullioned into narrow lights, and only commanded a view of the +opposite houses; hence, perhaps, it arose that the best and most +luxurious private sitting-room that the inn could afford over-looked +the nether parts of the establishment, where beyond the yard were to be +seen gardens and orchards, now bossed, nay incrusted, with scarlet and +gold fruit, stretching to infinite distance under a luminous lavender +mist. The time was early autumn, + +“When the fair apples, red as evening sky, +Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground, +When juicy pears, and berries of black dye, +Do dance in air, and call the eyes around.” + + +The landscape confronting the window might, indeed, have been part of +the identical stretch of country which the youthful Chatterton had in +his mind. + +In this room sat she who had been the maiden Grace Melbury till the +finger of fate touched her and turned her to a wife. It was two months +after the wedding, and she was alone. Fitzpiers had walked out to see +the abbey by the light of sunset, but she had been too fatigued to +accompany him. They had reached the last stage of a long eight-weeks’ +tour, and were going on to Hintock that night. + +In the yard, between Grace and the orchards, there progressed a scene +natural to the locality at this time of the year. An apple-mill and +press had been erected on the spot, to which some men were bringing +fruit from divers points in mawn-baskets, while others were grinding +them, and others wringing down the pomace, whose sweet juice gushed +forth into tubs and pails. The superintendent of these proceedings, to +whom the others spoke as master, was a young yeoman of prepossessing +manner and aspect, whose form she recognized in a moment. He had hung +his coat to a nail of the out-house wall, and wore his shirt-sleeves +rolled up beyond his elbows, to keep them unstained while he rammed the +pomace into the bags of horse-hair. Fragments of apple-rind had +alighted upon the brim of his hat—probably from the bursting of a +bag—while brown pips of the same fruit were sticking among the down +upon his fine, round arms. + +She realized in a moment how he had come there. Down in the heart of +the apple country nearly every farmer kept up a cider-making apparatus +and wring-house for his own use, building up the pomace in great straw +“cheeses,” as they were called; but here, on the margin of Pomona’s +plain, was a debatable land neither orchard nor sylvan exclusively, +where the apple produce was hardly sufficient to warrant each +proprietor in keeping a mill of his own. This was the field of the +travelling cider-maker. His press and mill were fixed to wheels instead +of being set up in a cider-house; and with a couple of horses, buckets, +tubs, strainers, and an assistant or two, he wandered from place to +place, deriving very satisfactory returns for his trouble in such a +prolific season as the present. + +The back parts of the town were just now abounding with +apple-gatherings. They stood in the yards in carts, baskets, and loose +heaps; and the blue, stagnant air of autumn which hung over everything +was heavy with a sweet cidery smell. Cakes of pomace lay against the +walls in the yellow sun, where they were drying to be used as fuel. Yet +it was not the great make of the year as yet; before the standard crop +came in there accumulated, in abundant times like this, a large +superfluity of early apples, and windfalls from the trees of later +harvest, which would not keep long. Thus, in the baskets, and quivering +in the hopper of the mill, she saw specimens of mixed dates, including +the mellow countenances of streaked-jacks, codlins, costards, +stubbards, ratheripes, and other well-known friends of her ravenous +youth. + +Grace watched the head-man with interest. The slightest sigh escaped +her. Perhaps she thought of the day—not so far distant—when that friend +of her childhood had met her by her father’s arrangement in this same +town, warm with hope, though diffident, and trusting in a promise +rather implied than given. Or she might have thought of days earlier +yet—days of childhood—when her mouth was somewhat more ready to receive +a kiss from his than was his to bestow one. However, all that was over. +She had felt superior to him then, and she felt superior to him now. + +She wondered why he never looked towards her open window. She did not +know that in the slight commotion caused by their arrival at the inn +that afternoon Winterborne had caught sight of her through the archway, +had turned red, and was continuing his work with more concentrated +attention on the very account of his discovery. Robert Creedle, too, +who travelled with Giles, had been incidentally informed by the hostler +that Dr. Fitzpiers and his young wife were in the hotel, after which +news Creedle kept shaking his head and saying to himself, “Ah!” very +audibly, between his thrusts at the screw of the cider-press. + +“Why the deuce do you sigh like that, Robert?” asked Winterborne, at +last. + +“Ah, maister—’tis my thoughts—’tis my thoughts!...Yes, ye’ve lost a +hundred load o’ timber well seasoned; ye’ve lost five hundred pound in +good money; ye’ve lost the stone-windered house that’s big enough to +hold a dozen families; ye’ve lost your share of half a dozen good +wagons and their horses—all lost!—through your letting slip she that +was once yer own!” + +“Good God, Creedle, you’ll drive me mad!” said Giles, sternly. “Don’t +speak of that any more!” + +Thus the subject had ended in the yard. Meanwhile, the passive cause of +all this loss still regarded the scene. She was beautifully dressed; +she was seated in the most comfortable room that the inn afforded; her +long journey had been full of variety, and almost luxuriously +performed—for Fitzpiers did not study economy where pleasure was in +question. Hence it perhaps arose that Giles and all his belongings +seemed sorry and common to her for the moment—moving in a plane so far +removed from her own of late that she could scarcely believe she had +ever found congruity therein. “No—I could never have married him!” she +said, gently shaking her head. “Dear father was right. It would have +been too coarse a life for me.” And she looked at the rings of sapphire +and opal upon her white and slender fingers that had been gifts from +Fitzpiers. + +Seeing that Giles still kept his back turned, and with a little of the +above-described pride of life—easily to be understood, and possibly +excused, in a young, inexperienced woman who thought she had married +well—she said at last, with a smile on her lips, “Mr. Winterborne!” + +He appeared to take no heed, and she said a second time, “Mr. +Winterborne!” + +Even now he seemed not to hear, though a person close enough to him to +see the expression of his face might have doubted it; and she said a +third time, with a timid loudness, “Mr. Winterborne! What, have you +forgotten my voice?” She remained with her lips parted in a welcoming +smile. + +He turned without surprise, and came deliberately towards the window. +“Why do you call me?” he said, with a sternness that took her +completely unawares, his face being now pale. “Is it not enough that +you see me here moiling and muddling for my daily bread while you are +sitting there in your success, that you can’t refrain from opening old +wounds by calling out my name?” + +She flushed, and was struck dumb for some moments; but she forgave his +unreasoning anger, knowing so well in what it had its root. “I am sorry +I offended you by speaking,” she replied, meekly. “Believe me, I did +not intend to do that. I could hardly sit here so near you without a +word of recognition.” + +Winterborne’s heart had swollen big, and his eyes grown moist by this +time, so much had the gentle answer of that familiar voice moved him. +He assured her hurriedly, and without looking at her, that he was not +angry. He then managed to ask her, in a clumsy, constrained way, if she +had had a pleasant journey, and seen many interesting sights. She spoke +of a few places that she had visited, and so the time passed till he +withdrew to take his place at one of the levers which pulled round the +screw. + +Forgotten her voice! Indeed, he had not forgotten her voice, as his +bitterness showed. But though in the heat of the moment he had +reproached her keenly, his second mood was a far more tender one—that +which could regard her renunciation of such as he as her glory and her +privilege, his own fidelity notwithstanding. He could have declared +with a contemporary poet— + + “If I forget, +The salt creek may forget the ocean; + If I forget +The heart whence flows my heart’s bright motion, +May I sink meanlier than the worst +Abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, + If I forget. + + + “Though you forget, +No word of mine shall mar your pleasure; + Though you forget, +You filled my barren life with treasure, +You may withdraw the gift you gave; +You still are queen, I still am slave, + Though you forget.” + + +She had tears in her eyes at the thought that she could not remind him +of what he ought to have remembered; that not herself but the pressure +of events had dissipated the dreams of their early youth. Grace was +thus unexpectedly worsted in her encounter with her old friend. She had +opened the window with a faint sense of triumph, but he had turned it +into sadness; she did not quite comprehend the reason why. In truth it +was because she was not cruel enough in her cruelty. If you have to use +the knife, use it, say the great surgeons; and for her own peace Grace +should have contemned Winterborne thoroughly or not at all. As it was, +on closing the window an indescribable, some might have said dangerous, +pity quavered in her bosom for him. + +Presently her husband entered the room, and told her what a wonderful +sunset there was to be seen. + +“I have not noticed it. But I have seen somebody out there that we +know,” she replied, looking into the court. + +Fitzpiers followed the direction of her eyes, and said he did not +recognize anybody. + +“Why, Mr. Winterborne—there he is, cider-making. He combines that with +his other business, you know.” + +“Oh—that fellow,” said Fitzpiers, his curiosity becoming extinct. + +She, reproachfully: “What, call Mr. Winterborne a fellow, Edgar? It is +true I was just saying to myself that I never could have married him; +but I have much regard for him, and always shall.” + +“Well, do by all means, my dear one. I dare say I am inhuman, and +supercilious, and contemptibly proud of my poor old ramshackle family; +but I do honestly confess to you that I feel as if I belonged to a +different species from the people who are working in that yard.” + +“And from me too, then. For my blood is no better than theirs.” + +He looked at her with a droll sort of awakening. It was, indeed, a +startling anomaly that this woman of the tribe without should be +standing there beside him as his wife, if his sentiments were as he had +said. In their travels together she had ranged so unerringly at his +level in ideas, tastes, and habits that he had almost forgotten how his +heart had played havoc with his principles in taking her to him. + +“Ah YOU—you are refined and educated into something quite different,” +he said, self-assuringly. + +“I don’t quite like to think that,” she murmured with soft regret. “And +I think you underestimate Giles Winterborne. Remember, I was brought up +with him till I was sent away to school, so I cannot be radically +different. At any rate, I don’t feel so. That is, no doubt, my fault, +and a great blemish in me. But I hope you will put up with it, Edgar.” + +Fitzpiers said that he would endeavor to do so; and as it was now +getting on for dusk, they prepared to perform the last stage of their +journey, so as to arrive at Hintock before it grew very late. + +In less than half an hour they started, the cider-makers in the yard +having ceased their labors and gone away, so that the only sounds +audible there now were the trickling of the juice from the tightly +screwed press, and the buzz of a single wasp, which had drunk itself so +tipsy that it was unconscious of nightfall. Grace was very cheerful at +the thought of being soon in her sylvan home, but Fitzpiers sat beside +her almost silent. An indescribable oppressiveness had overtaken him +with the near approach of the journey’s end and the realities of life +that lay there. + +“You don’t say a word, Edgar,” she observed. “Aren’t you glad to get +back? I am.” + +“You have friends here. I have none.” + +“But my friends are yours.” + +“Oh yes—in that sense.” + +The conversation languished, and they drew near the end of Hintock +Lane. It had been decided that they should, at least for a time, take +up their abode in her father’s roomy house, one wing of which was quite +at their service, being almost disused by the Melburys. Workmen had +been painting, papering, and whitewashing this set of rooms in the +wedded pair’s absence; and so scrupulous had been the timber-dealer +that there should occur no hitch or disappointment on their arrival, +that not the smallest detail remained undone. To make it all complete a +ground-floor room had been fitted up as a surgery, with an independent +outer door, to which Fitzpiers’s brass plate was screwed—for mere +ornament, such a sign being quite superfluous where everybody knew the +latitude and longitude of his neighbors for miles round. + +Melbury and his wife welcomed the twain with affection, and all the +house with deference. They went up to explore their rooms, that opened +from a passage on the left hand of the staircase, the entrance to which +could be shut off on the landing by a door that Melbury had hung for +the purpose. A friendly fire was burning in the grate, although it was +not cold. Fitzpiers said it was too soon for any sort of meal, they +only having dined shortly before leaving Sherton-Abbas. He would walk +across to his old lodging, to learn how his locum tenens had got on in +his absence. + +In leaving Melbury’s door he looked back at the house. There was +economy in living under that roof, and economy was desirable, but in +some way he was dissatisfied with the arrangement; it immersed him so +deeply in son-in-lawship to Melbury. He went on to his former +residence. His deputy was out, and Fitzpiers fell into conversation +with his former landlady. + +“Well, Mrs. Cox, what’s the best news?” he asked of her, with cheery +weariness. + +She was a little soured at losing by his marriage so profitable a +tenant as the surgeon had proved to be during his residence under her +roof; and the more so in there being hardly the remotest chance of her +getting such another settler in the Hintock solitudes. “’Tis what I +don’t wish to repeat, sir; least of all to you,” she mumbled. + +“Never mind me, Mrs. Cox; go ahead.” + +“It is what people say about your hasty marrying, Dr. Fitzpiers. +Whereas they won’t believe you know such clever doctrines in physic as +they once supposed of ye, seeing as you could marry into Mr. Melbury’s +family, which is only Hintock-born, such as me.” + +“They are kindly welcome to their opinion,” said Fitzpiers, not +allowing himself to recognize that he winced. “Anything else?” + +“Yes; _she’s_ come home at last.” + +“Who’s she?” + +“Mrs. Charmond.” + +“Oh, indeed!” said Fitzpiers, with but slight interest. “I’ve never +seen her.” + +“She has seen you, sir, whether or no.” + +“Never.” + +“Yes; she saw you in some hotel or street for a minute or two while you +were away travelling, and accidentally heard your name; and when she +made some remark about you, Miss Ellis—that’s her maid—told her you was +on your wedding-tower with Mr. Melbury’s daughter; and she said, ‘He +ought to have done better than that. I fear he has spoiled his +chances,’ she says.” + +Fitzpiers did not talk much longer to this cheering housewife, and +walked home with no very brisk step. He entered the door quietly, and +went straight up-stairs to the drawing-room extemporized for their use +by Melbury in his and his bride’s absence, expecting to find her there +as he had left her. The fire was burning still, but there were no +lights. He looked into the next apartment, fitted up as a little +dining-room, but no supper was laid. He went to the top of the stairs, +and heard a chorus of voices in the timber-merchant’s parlor below, +Grace’s being occasionally intermingled. + +Descending, and looking into the room from the door-way, he found quite +a large gathering of neighbors and other acquaintances, praising and +congratulating Mrs. Fitzpiers on her return, among them being the +dairyman, Farmer Bawtree, and the master-blacksmith from Great Hintock; +also the cooper, the hollow-turner, the exciseman, and some others, +with their wives, who lived hard by. Grace, girl that she was, had +quite forgotten her new dignity and her husband’s; she was in the midst +of them, blushing, and receiving their compliments with all the +pleasure of old-comradeship. + +Fitzpiers experienced a profound distaste for the situation. Melbury +was nowhere in the room, but Melbury’s wife, perceiving the doctor, +came to him. “We thought, Grace and I,” she said, “that as they have +called, hearing you were come, we could do no less than ask them to +supper; and then Grace proposed that we should all sup together, as it +is the first night of your return.” + +By this time Grace had come round to him. “Is it not good of them to +welcome me so warmly?” she exclaimed, with tears of friendship in her +eyes. “After so much good feeling I could not think of our shutting +ourselves up away from them in our own dining-room.” + +“Certainly not—certainly not,” said Fitzpiers; and he entered the room +with the heroic smile of a martyr. + +As soon as they sat down to table Melbury came in, and seemed to see at +once that Fitzpiers would much rather have received no such +demonstrative reception. He thereupon privately chid his wife for her +forwardness in the matter. Mrs. Melbury declared that it was as much +Grace’s doing as hers, after which there was no more to be said by that +young woman’s tender father. By this time Fitzpiers was making the best +of his position among the wide-elbowed and genial company who sat +eating and drinking and laughing and joking around him; and getting +warmed himself by the good cheer, was obliged to admit that, after all, +the supper was not the least enjoyable he had ever known. + +At times, however, the words about his having spoiled his +opportunities, repeated to him as those of Mrs. Charmond, haunted him +like a handwriting on the wall. Then his manner would become suddenly +abstracted. At one moment he would mentally put an indignant query why +Mrs. Charmond or any other woman should make it her business to have +opinions about his opportunities; at another he thought that he could +hardly be angry with her for taking an interest in the doctor of her +own parish. Then he would drink a glass of grog and so get rid of the +misgiving. These hitches and quaffings were soon perceived by Grace as +well as by her father; and hence both of them were much relieved when +the first of the guests to discover that the hour was growing late rose +and declared that he must think of moving homeward. At the words +Melbury rose as alertly as if lifted by a spring, and in ten minutes +they were gone. + +“Now, Grace,” said her husband as soon as he found himself alone with +her in their private apartments, “we’ve had a very pleasant evening, +and everybody has been very kind. But we must come to an understanding +about our way of living here. If we continue in these rooms there must +be no mixing in with your people below. I can’t stand it, and that’s +the truth.” + +She had been sadly surprised at the suddenness of his distaste for +those old-fashioned woodland forms of life which in his courtship he +had professed to regard with so much interest. But she assented in a +moment. + +“We must be simply your father’s tenants,” he continued, “and our +goings and comings must be as independent as if we lived elsewhere.” + +“Certainly, Edgar—I quite see that it must be so.” + +“But you joined in with all those people in my absence, without knowing +whether I should approve or disapprove. When I came I couldn’t help +myself at all.” + +She, sighing: “Yes—I see I ought to have waited; though they came +unexpectedly, and I thought I had acted for the best.” + +Thus the discussion ended, and the next day Fitzpiers went on his old +rounds as usual. But it was easy for so super-subtle an eye as his to +discern, or to think he discerned, that he was no longer regarded as an +extrinsic, unfathomed gentleman of limitless potentiality, scientific +and social; but as Mr. Melbury’s compeer, and therefore in a degree +only one of themselves. The Hintock woodlandlers held with all the +strength of inherited conviction to the aristocratic principle, and as +soon as they had discovered that Fitzpiers was one of the old Buckbury +Fitzpierses they had accorded to him for nothing a touching of +hat-brims, promptness of service, and deference of approach, which +Melbury had to do without, though he paid for it over and over. But +now, having proved a traitor to his own cause by this marriage, +Fitzpiers was believed in no more as a superior hedged by his own +divinity; while as doctor he began to be rated no higher than old +Jones, whom they had so long despised. + +His few patients seemed in his two months’ absence to have dwindled +considerably in number, and no sooner had he returned than there came +to him from the Board of Guardians a complaint that a pauper had been +neglected by his substitute. In a fit of pride Fitzpiers resigned his +appointment as one of the surgeons to the union, which had been the +nucleus of his practice here. + +At the end of a fortnight he came in-doors one evening to Grace more +briskly than usual. “They have written to me again about that practice +in Budmouth that I once negotiated for,” he said to her. “The premium +asked is eight hundred pounds, and I think that between your father and +myself it ought to be raised. Then we can get away from this place +forever.” + +The question had been mooted between them before, and she was not +unprepared to consider it. They had not proceeded far with the +discussion when a knock came to the door, and in a minute Grammer ran +up to say that a message had arrived from Hintock House requesting Dr. +Fitzpiers to attend there at once. Mrs. Charmond had met with a slight +accident through the overturning of her carriage. + +“This is something, anyhow,” said Fitzpiers, rising with an interest +which he could not have defined. “I have had a presentiment that this +mysterious woman and I were to be better acquainted.” + +The latter words were murmured to himself alone. + +“Good-night,” said Grace, as soon as he was ready. “I shall be asleep, +probably, when you return.” + +“Good-night,” he replied, inattentively, and went down-stairs. It was +the first time since their marriage that he had left her without a +kiss. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +Winterborne’s house had been pulled down. On this account his face had +been seen but fitfully in Hintock; and he would probably have +disappeared from the place altogether but for his slight business +connection with Melbury, on whose premises Giles kept his cider-making +apparatus, now that he had no place of his own to stow it in. Coming +here one evening on his way to a hut beyond the wood where he now +slept, he noticed that the familiar brown-thatched pinion of his +paternal roof had vanished from its site, and that the walls were +levelled. In present circumstances he had a feeling for the spot that +might have been called morbid, and when he had supped in the hut +aforesaid he made use of the spare hour before bedtime to return to +Little Hintock in the twilight and ramble over the patch of ground on +which he had first seen the day. + +He repeated this evening visit on several like occasions. Even in the +gloom he could trace where the different rooms had stood; could mark +the shape of the kitchen chimney-corner, in which he had roasted apples +and potatoes in his boyhood, cast his bullets, and burned his initials +on articles that did and did not belong to him. The apple-trees still +remained to show where the garden had been, the oldest of them even now +retaining the crippled slant to north-east given them by the great +November gale of 1824, which carried a brig bodily over the Chesil +Bank. They were at present bent to still greater obliquity by the +heaviness of their produce. Apples bobbed against his head, and in the +grass beneath he crunched scores of them as he walked. There was nobody +to gather them now. + +It was on the evening under notice that, half sitting, half leaning +against one of these inclined trunks, Winterborne had become lost in +his thoughts, as usual, till one little star after another had taken up +a position in the piece of sky which now confronted him where his walls +and chimneys had formerly raised their outlines. The house had jutted +awkwardly into the road, and the opening caused by its absence was very +distinct. + +In the silence the trot of horses and the spin of carriage-wheels +became audible; and the vehicle soon shaped itself against the blank +sky, bearing down upon him with the bend in the lane which here +occurred, and of which the house had been the cause. He could discern +the figure of a woman high up on the driving-seat of a phaeton, a groom +being just visible behind. Presently there was a slight scrape, then a +scream. Winterborne went across to the spot, and found the phaeton half +overturned, its driver sitting on the heap of rubbish which had once +been his dwelling, and the man seizing the horses’ heads. The equipage +was Mrs. Charmond’s, and the unseated charioteer that lady herself. + +To his inquiry if she were hurt she made some incoherent reply to the +effect that she did not know. The damage in other respects was little +or none: the phaeton was righted, Mrs. Charmond placed in it, and the +reins given to the servant. It appeared that she had been deceived by +the removal of the house, imagining the gap caused by the demolition to +be the opening of the road, so that she turned in upon the ruins +instead of at the bend a few yards farther on. + +“Drive home—drive home!” cried the lady, impatiently; and they started +on their way. They had not, however, gone many paces when, the air +being still, Winterborne heard her say “Stop; tell that man to call the +doctor—Mr. Fitzpiers—and send him on to the House. I find I am hurt +more seriously than I thought.” + +Winterborne took the message from the groom and proceeded to the +doctor’s at once. Having delivered it, he stepped back into the +darkness, and waited till he had seen Fitzpiers leave the door. He +stood for a few minutes looking at the window which by its light +revealed the room where Grace was sitting, and went away under the +gloomy trees. + +Fitzpiers duly arrived at Hintock House, whose doors he now saw open +for the first time. Contrary to his expectation there was visible no +sign of that confusion or alarm which a serious accident to the +mistress of the abode would have occasioned. He was shown into a room +at the top of the staircase, cosily and femininely draped, where, by +the light of the shaded lamp, he saw a woman of full round figure +reclining upon a couch in such a position as not to disturb a pile of +magnificent hair on the crown of her head. A deep purple dressing-gown +formed an admirable foil to the peculiarly rich brown of her +hair-plaits; her left arm, which was naked nearly up to the shoulder, +was thrown upward, and between the fingers of her right hand she held a +cigarette, while she idly breathed from her plump lips a thin stream of +smoke towards the ceiling. + +The doctor’s first feeling was a sense of his exaggerated prevision in +having brought appliances for a serious case; the next, something more +curious. While the scene and the moment were new to him and +unanticipated, the sentiment and essence of the moment were +indescribably familiar. What could be the cause of it? Probably a +dream. + +Mrs. Charmond did not move more than to raise her eyes to him, and he +came and stood by her. She glanced up at his face across her brows and +forehead, and then he observed a blush creep slowly over her decidedly +handsome cheeks. Her eyes, which had lingered upon him with an +inquiring, conscious expression, were hastily withdrawn, and she +mechanically applied the cigarette again to her lips. + +For a moment he forgot his errand, till suddenly arousing himself he +addressed her, formally condoled with her, and made the usual +professional inquiries about what had happened to her, and where she +was hurt. + +“That’s what I want you to tell me,” she murmured, in tones of +indefinable reserve. “I quite believe in you, for I know you are very +accomplished, because you study so hard.” + +“I’ll do my best to justify your good opinion,” said the young man, +bowing. “And none the less that I am happy to find the accident has not +been serious.” + +“I am very much shaken,” she said. + +“Oh yes,” he replied; and completed his examination, which convinced +him that there was really nothing the matter with her, and more than +ever puzzled him as to why he had been fetched, since she did not +appear to be a timid woman. “You must rest a while, and I’ll send +something,” he said. + +“Oh, I forgot,” she returned. “Look here.” And she showed him a little +scrape on her arm—the full round arm that was exposed. “Put some +court-plaster on that, please.” + +He obeyed. “And now,” she said, “before you go I want to put a question +to you. Sit round there in front of me, on that low chair, and bring +the candles, or one, to the little table. Do you smoke? Yes? That’s +right—I am learning. Take one of these; and here’s a light.” She threw +a matchbox across. + +Fitzpiers caught it, and having lit up, regarded her from his new +position, which, with the shifting of the candles, for the first time +afforded him a full view of her face. “How many years have passed since +first we met!” she resumed, in a voice which she mainly endeavored to +maintain at its former pitch of composure, and eying him with daring +bashfulness. + +“_We_ met, do you say?” + +She nodded. “I saw you recently at an hotel in London, when you were +passing through, I suppose, with your bride, and I recognized you as +one I had met in my girlhood. Do you remember, when you were studying +at Heidelberg, an English family that was staying there, who used to +walk—” + +“And the young lady who wore a long tail of rare-colored hair—ah, I see +it before my eyes!—who lost her gloves on the Great Terrace—who was +going back in the dusk to find them—to whom I said, ‘I’ll go for them,’ +and you said, ‘Oh, they are not worth coming all the way up again for.’ +I _do_ remember, and how very long we stayed talking there! I went next +morning while the dew was on the grass: there they lay—the little +fingers sticking out damp and thin. I see them now! I picked them up, +and then—” + +“Well?” + +“I kissed them,” he rejoined, rather shamefacedly. + +“But you had hardly ever seen me except in the dusk?” + +“Never mind. I was young then, and I kissed them. I wondered how I +could make the most of my _trouvaille_, and decided that I would call +at your hotel with them that afternoon. It rained, and I waited till +next day. I called, and you were gone.” + +“Yes,” answered she, with dry melancholy. “My mother, knowing my +disposition, said she had no wish for such a chit as me to go falling +in love with an impecunious student, and spirited me away to Baden. As +it is all over and past I’ll tell you one thing: I should have sent you +a line passing warm had I known your name. That name I never knew till +my maid said, as you passed up the hotel stairs a month ago, ‘There’s +Dr. Fitzpiers.’” + +“Good Heaven!” said Fitzpiers, musingly. “How the time comes back to +me! The evening, the morning, the dew, the spot. When I found that you +really were gone it was as if a cold iron had been passed down my back. +I went up to where you had stood when I last saw you—I flung myself on +the grass, and—being not much more than a boy—my eyes were literally +blinded with tears. Nameless, unknown to me as you were, I couldn’t +forget your voice.” + +“For how long?” + +“Oh—ever so long. Days and days.” + +“Days and days! _Only_ days and days? Oh, the heart of a man! Days and +days!” + +“But, my dear madam, I had not known you more than a day or two. It was +not a full-blown love—it was the merest bud—red, fresh, vivid, but +small. It was a colossal passion in posse, a giant in embryo. It never +matured.” + +“So much the better, perhaps.” + +“Perhaps. But see how powerless is the human will against +predestination. We were prevented meeting; we have met. One feature of +the case remains the same amid many changes. You are still rich, and I +am still poor. Better than that, you have (judging by your last remark) +outgrown the foolish, impulsive passions of your early girl-hood. I +have not outgrown mine.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said she, with vibrations of strong feeling in her +words. “I have been placed in a position which hinders such +outgrowings. Besides, I don’t believe that the genuine subjects of +emotion do outgrow them; I believe that the older such people get the +worse they are. Possibly at ninety or a hundred they may feel they are +cured; but a mere threescore and ten won’t do it—at least for me.” + +He gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Here was a soul of souls! + +“Mrs. Charmond, you speak truly,” he exclaimed. “But you speak sadly as +well. Why is that?” + +“I always am sad when I come here,” she said, dropping to a low tone +with a sense of having been too demonstrative. + +“Then may I inquire why you came?” + +“A man brought me. Women are always carried about like corks upon the +waves of masculine desires....I hope I have not alarmed you; but +Hintock has the curious effect of bottling up the emotions till one can +no longer hold them; I am often obliged to fly away and discharge my +sentiments somewhere, or I should die outright.” + +“There is very good society in the county for those who have the +privilege of entering it.” + +“Perhaps so. But the misery of remote country life is that your +neighbors have no toleration for difference of opinion and habit. My +neighbors think I am an atheist, except those who think I am a Roman +Catholic; and when I speak disrespectfully of the weather or the crops +they think I am a blasphemer.” + +She broke into a low musical laugh at the idea. + +“You don’t wish me to stay any longer?” he inquired, when he found that +she remained musing. + +“No—I think not.” + +“Then tell me that I am to be gone.” + +“Why? Cannot you go without?” + +“I may consult my own feelings only, if left to myself.” + +“Well, if you do, what then? Do you suppose you’ll be in my way?” + +“I feared it might be so.” + +“Then fear no more. But good-night. Come to-morrow and see if I am +going on right. This renewal of acquaintance touches me. I have already +a friendship for you.” + +“If it depends upon myself it shall last forever.” + +“My best hopes that it may. Good-by.” + +Fitzpiers went down the stairs absolutely unable to decide whether she +had sent for him in the natural alarm which might have followed her +mishap, or with the single view of making herself known to him as she +had done, for which the capsize had afforded excellent opportunity. +Outside the house he mused over the spot under the light of the stars. +It seemed very strange that he should have come there more than once +when its inhabitant was absent, and observed the house with a nameless +interest; that he should have assumed off-hand before he knew Grace +that it was here she lived; that, in short, at sundry times and seasons +the individuality of Hintock House should have forced itself upon him +as appertaining to some existence with which he was concerned. + +The intersection of his temporal orbit with Mrs. Charmond’s for a day +or two in the past had created a sentimental interest in her at the +time, but it had been so evanescent that in the ordinary onward roll of +affairs he would scarce ever have recalled it again. To find her here, +however, in these somewhat romantic circumstances, magnified that +by-gone and transitory tenderness to indescribable proportions. + +On entering Little Hintock he found himself regarding it in a new +way—from the Hintock House point of view rather than from his own and +the Melburys’. The household had all gone to bed, and as he went +up-stairs he heard the snore of the timber-merchant from his quarter of +the building, and turned into the passage communicating with his own +rooms in a strange access of sadness. A light was burning for him in +the chamber; but Grace, though in bed, was not asleep. In a moment her +sympathetic voice came from behind the curtains. + +“Edgar, is she very seriously hurt?” + +Fitzpiers had so entirely lost sight of Mrs. Charmond as a patient that +he was not on the instant ready with a reply. + +“Oh no,” he said. “There are no bones broken, but she is shaken. I am +going again to-morrow.” + +Another inquiry or two, and Grace said, + +“Did she ask for me?” + +“Well—I think she did—I don’t quite remember; but I am under the +impression that she spoke of you.” + +“Cannot you recollect at all what she said?” + +“I cannot, just this minute.” + +“At any rate she did not talk much about me?” said Grace with +disappointment. + +“Oh no.” + +“But you did, perhaps,” she added, innocently fishing for a compliment. + +“Oh yes—you may depend upon that!” replied he, warmly, though scarcely +thinking of what he was saying, so vividly was there present to his +mind the personality of Mrs. Charmond. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +The doctor’s professional visit to Hintock House was promptly repeated +the next day and the next. He always found Mrs. Charmond reclining on a +sofa, and behaving generally as became a patient who was in no great +hurry to lose that title. On each occasion he looked gravely at the +little scratch on her arm, as if it had been a serious wound. + +He had also, to his further satisfaction, found a slight scar on her +temple, and it was very convenient to put a piece of black plaster on +this conspicuous part of her person in preference to gold-beater’s +skin, so that it might catch the eyes of the servants, and make his +presence appear decidedly necessary, in case there should be any doubt +of the fact. + +“Oh—you hurt me!” she exclaimed one day. + +He was peeling off the bit of plaster on her arm, under which the +scrape had turned the color of an unripe blackberry previous to +vanishing altogether. “Wait a moment, then—I’ll damp it,” said +Fitzpiers. He put his lips to the place and kept them there till the +plaster came off easily. “It was at your request I put it on,” said he. + +“I know it,” she replied. “Is that blue vein still in my temple that +used to show there? The scar must be just upon it. If the cut had been +a little deeper it would have spilt my hot blood indeed!” Fitzpiers +examined so closely that his breath touched her tenderly, at which +their eyes rose to an encounter—hers showing themselves as deep and +mysterious as interstellar space. She turned her face away suddenly. +“Ah! none of that! none of that—I cannot coquet with you!” she cried. +“Don’t suppose I consent to for one moment. Our poor, brief, youthful +hour of love-making was too long ago to bear continuing now. It is as +well that we should understand each other on that point before we go +further.” + +“Coquet! Nor I with you. As it was when I found the historic gloves, so +it is now. I might have been and may be foolish; but I am no trifler. I +naturally cannot forget that little space in which I flitted across the +field of your vision in those days of the past, and the recollection +opens up all sorts of imaginings.” + +“Suppose my mother had not taken me away?” she murmured, her dreamy +eyes resting on the swaying tip of a distant tree. + +“I should have seen you again.” + +“And then?” + +“Then the fire would have burned higher and higher. What would have +immediately followed I know not; but sorrow and sickness of heart at +last.” + +“Why?” + +“Well—that’s the end of all love, according to Nature’s law. I can give +no other reason.” + +“Oh, don’t speak like that,” she exclaimed. “Since we are only +picturing the possibilities of that time, don’t, for pity’s sake, spoil +the picture.” Her voice sank almost to a whisper as she added, with an +incipient pout upon her full lips, “Let me think at least that if you +had really loved me at all seriously, you would have loved me for ever +and ever!” + +“You are right—think it with all your heart,” said he. “It is a +pleasant thought, and costs nothing.” + +She weighed that remark in silence a while. “Did you ever hear anything +of me from then till now?” she inquired. + +“Not a word.” + +“So much the better. I had to fight the battle of life as well as you. +I may tell you about it some day. But don’t ever ask me to do it, and +particularly do not press me to tell you now.” + +Thus the two or three days that they had spent in tender acquaintance +on the romantic slopes above the Neckar were stretched out in +retrospect to the length and importance of years; made to form a canvas +for infinite fancies, idle dreams, luxurious melancholies, and sweet, +alluring assertions which could neither be proved nor disproved. Grace +was never mentioned between them, but a rumor of his proposed domestic +changes somehow reached her ears. + +“Doctor, you are going away,” she exclaimed, confronting him with +accusatory reproach in her large dark eyes no less than in her rich +cooing voice. “Oh yes, you are,” she went on, springing to her feet +with an air which might almost have been called passionate. “It is no +use denying it. You have bought a practice at Budmouth. I don’t blame +you. Nobody can live at Hintock—least of all a professional man who +wants to keep abreast of recent discovery. And there is nobody here to +induce such a one to stay for other reasons. That’s right, that’s +right—go away!” + +“But no, I have not actually bought the practice as yet, though I am +indeed in treaty for it. And, my dear friend, if I continue to feel +about the business as I feel at this moment—perhaps I may conclude +never to go at all.” + +“But you hate Hintock, and everybody and everything in it that you +don’t mean to take away with you?” + +Fitzpiers contradicted this idea in his most vibratory tones, and she +lapsed into the frivolous archness under which she hid passions of no +mean strength—strange, smouldering, erratic passions, kept down like a +stifled conflagration, but bursting out now here, now there—the only +certain element in their direction being its unexpectedness. If one +word could have expressed her it would have been Inconsequence. She was +a woman of perversities, delighting in frequent contrasts. She liked +mystery, in her life, in her love, in her history. To be fair to her, +there was nothing in the latter which she had any great reason to be +ashamed of, and many things of which she might have been proud; but it +had never been fathomed by the honest minds of Hintock, and she rarely +volunteered her experiences. As for her capricious nature, the people +on her estates grew accustomed to it, and with that marvellous subtlety +of contrivance in steering round odd tempers, that is found in sons of +the soil and dependants generally, they managed to get along under her +government rather better than they would have done beneath a more +equable rule. + +Now, with regard to the doctor’s notion of leaving Hintock, he had +advanced further towards completing the purchase of the Budmouth +surgeon’s good-will than he had admitted to Mrs. Charmond. The whole +matter hung upon what he might do in the ensuing twenty-four hours. The +evening after leaving her he went out into the lane, and walked and +pondered between the high hedges, now greenish-white with wild +clematis—here called “old-man’s beard,” from its aspect later in the +year. + +The letter of acceptance was to be written that night, after which his +departure from Hintock would be irrevocable. But could he go away, +remembering what had just passed? The trees, the hills, the leaves, the +grass—each had been endowed and quickened with a subtle charm since he +had discovered the person and history, and, above all, mood of their +owner. There was every temporal reason for leaving; it would be +entering again into a world which he had only quitted in a passion for +isolation, induced by a fit of Achillean moodiness after an imagined +slight. His wife herself saw the awkwardness of their position here, +and cheerfully welcomed the purposed change, towards which every step +had been taken but the last. But could he find it in his heart—as he +found it clearly enough in his conscience—to go away? + +He drew a troubled breath, and went in-doors. Here he rapidly penned a +letter, wherein he withdrew once for all from the treaty for the +Budmouth practice. As the postman had already left Little Hintock for +that night, he sent one of Melbury’s men to intercept a mail-cart on +another turnpike-road, and so got the letter off. + +The man returned, met Fitzpiers in the lane, and told him the thing was +done. Fitzpiers went back to his house musing. Why had he carried out +this impulse—taken such wild trouble to effect a probable injury to his +own and his young wife’s prospects? His motive was fantastic, glowing, +shapeless as the fiery scenery about the western sky. Mrs. Charmond +could overtly be nothing more to him than a patient now, and to his +wife, at the outside, a patron. In the unattached bachelor days of his +first sojourning here how highly proper an emotional reason for +lingering on would have appeared to troublesome dubiousness. +Matrimonial ambition is such an honorable thing. + +“My father has told me that you have sent off one of the men with a +late letter to Budmouth,” cried Grace, coming out vivaciously to meet +him under the declining light of the sky, wherein hung, solitary, the +folding star. “I said at once that you had finally agreed to pay the +premium they ask, and that the tedious question had been settled. When +do we go, Edgar?” + +“I have altered my mind,” said he. “They want too much—seven hundred +and fifty is too large a sum—and in short, I have declined to go +further. We must wait for another opportunity. I fear I am not a good +business-man.” He spoke the last words with a momentary faltering at +the great foolishness of his act; for, as he looked in her fair and +honorable face, his heart reproached him for what he had done. + +Her manner that evening showed her disappointment. Personally she liked +the home of her childhood much, and she was not ambitious. But her +husband had seemed so dissatisfied with the circumstances hereabout +since their marriage that she had sincerely hoped to go for his sake. + +It was two or three days before he visited Mrs. Charmond again. The +morning had been windy, and little showers had sowed themselves like +grain against the walls and window-panes of the Hintock cottages. He +went on foot across the wilder recesses of the park, where slimy +streams of green moisture, exuding from decayed holes caused by old +amputations, ran down the bark of the oaks and elms, the rind below +being coated with a lichenous wash as green as emerald. They were +stout-trunked trees, that never rocked their stems in the fiercest +gale, responding to it entirely by crooking their limbs. Wrinkled like +an old crone’s face, and antlered with dead branches that rose above +the foliage of their summits, they were nevertheless still green—though +yellow had invaded the leaves of other trees. + +She was in a little boudoir or writing-room on the first floor, and +Fitzpiers was much surprised to find that the window-curtains were +closed and a red-shaded lamp and candles burning, though out-of-doors +it was broad daylight. Moreover, a large fire was burning in the grate, +though it was not cold. + +“What does it all mean?” he asked. + +She sat in an easy-chair, her face being turned away. “Oh,” she +murmured, “it is because the world is so dreary outside. Sorrow and +bitterness in the sky, and floods of agonized tears beating against the +panes. I lay awake last night, and I could hear the scrape of snails +creeping up the window-glass; it was so sad! My eyes were so heavy this +morning that I could have wept my life away. I cannot bear you to see +my face; I keep it away from you purposely. Oh! why were we given +hungry hearts and wild desires if we have to live in a world like this? +Why should Death only lend what Life is compelled to borrow—rest? +Answer that, Dr. Fitzpiers.” + +“You must eat of a second tree of knowledge before _you_ can do it, +Felice Charmond.” + +“Then, when my emotions have exhausted themselves, I become full of +fears, till I think I shall die for very fear. The terrible +insistencies of society—how severe they are, and cold and +inexorable—ghastly towards those who are made of wax and not of stone. +Oh, I am afraid of them; a stab for this error, and a stab for +that—correctives and regulations framed that society may tend to +perfection—an end which I don’t care for in the least. Yet for this, +all I do care for has to be stunted and starved.” + +Fitzpiers had seated himself near her. “What sets you in this mournful +mood?” he asked, gently. (In reality he knew that it was the result of +a loss of tone from staying in-doors so much, but he did not say so.) + +“My reflections. Doctor, you must not come here any more. They begin to +think it a farce already. I say you must come no more. There—don’t be +angry with me;” and she jumped up, pressed his hand, and looked +anxiously at him. “It is necessary. It is best for both you and me.” + +“But,” said Fitzpiers, gloomily, “what have we done?” + +“Done—we have done nothing. Perhaps we have thought the more. However, +it is all vexation. I am going away to Middleton Abbey, near +Shottsford, where a relative of my late husband lives, who is confined +to her bed. The engagement was made in London, and I can’t get out of +it. Perhaps it is for the best that I go there till all this is past. +When are you going to enter on your new practice, and leave Hintock +behind forever, with your pretty wife on your arm?” + +“I have refused the opportunity. I love this place too well to depart.” + +“You _have?_” she said, regarding him with wild uncertainty. “Why do +you ruin yourself in that way? Great Heaven, what have I done!” + +“Nothing. Besides, you are going away.” + +“Oh yes; but only to Middleton Abbey for a month or two. Yet perhaps I +shall gain strength there—particularly strength of mind—I require it. +And when I come back I shall be a new woman; and you can come and see +me safely then, and bring your wife with you, and we’ll be friends—she +and I. Oh, how this shutting up of one’s self does lead to indulgence +in idle sentiments. I shall not wish you to give your attendance to me +after to-day. But I am glad that you are not going away—if your +remaining does not injure your prospects at all.” + +As soon as he had left the room the mild friendliness she had preserved +in her tone at parting, the playful sadness with which she had +conversed with him, equally departed from her. She became as heavy as +lead—just as she had been before he arrived. Her whole being seemed to +dissolve in a sad powerlessness to do anything, and the sense of it +made her lips tremulous and her closed eyes wet. His footsteps again +startled her, and she turned round. + +“I returned for a moment to tell you that the evening is going to be +fine. The sun is shining; so do open your curtains and put out those +lights. Shall I do it for you?” + +“Please—if you don’t mind.” + +He drew back the window-curtains, whereupon the red glow of the lamp +and the two candle-flames became almost invisible with the flood of +late autumn sunlight that poured in. “Shall I come round to you?” he +asked, her back being towards him. + +“No,” she replied. + +“Why not?” + +“Because I am crying, and I don’t want to see you.” + +He stood a moment irresolute, and regretted that he had killed the +rosy, passionate lamplight by opening the curtains and letting in +garish day. + +“Then I am going,” he said. + +“Very well,” she answered, stretching one hand round to him, and +patting her eyes with a handkerchief held in the other. + +“Shall I write a line to you at—” + +“No, no.” A gentle reasonableness came into her tone as she added, “It +must not be, you know. It won’t do.” + +“Very well. Good-by.” The next moment he was gone. + +In the evening, with listless adroitness, she encouraged the maid who +dressed her for dinner to speak of Dr. Fitzpiers’s marriage. + +“Mrs. Fitzpiers was once supposed to favor Mr. Winterborne,” said the +young woman. + +“And why didn’t she marry him?” said Mrs. Charmond. + +“Because, you see, ma’am, he lost his houses.” + +“Lost his houses? How came he to do that?” + +“The houses were held on lives, and the lives dropped, and your agent +wouldn’t renew them, though it is said that Mr. Winterborne had a very +good claim. That’s as I’ve heard it, ma’am, and it was through it that +the match was broke off.” + +Being just then distracted by a dozen emotions, Mrs. Charmond sunk into +a mood of dismal self-reproach. “In refusing that poor man his +reasonable request,” she said to herself, “I foredoomed my rejuvenated +girlhood’s romance. Who would have thought such a business matter could +have nettled my own heart like this? Now for a winter of regrets and +agonies and useless wishes, till I forget him in the spring. Oh! I am +glad I am going away.” + +She left her chamber and went down to dine with a sigh. On the stairs +she stood opposite the large window for a moment, and looked out upon +the lawn. It was not yet quite dark. Half-way up the steep green slope +confronting her stood old Timothy Tangs, who was shortening his way +homeward by clambering here where there was no road, and in opposition +to express orders that no path was to be made there. Tangs had +momentarily stopped to take a pinch of snuff; but observing Mrs. +Charmond gazing at him, he hastened to get over the top out of hail. +His precipitancy made him miss his footing, and he rolled like a barrel +to the bottom, his snuffbox rolling in front of him. + +Her indefinite, idle, impossible passion for Fitzpiers; her +constitutional cloud of misery; the sorrowful drops that still hung +upon her eyelashes, all made way for the incursive mood started by the +spectacle. She burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, her very gloom +of the previous hour seeming to render it the more uncontrollable. It +had not died out of her when she reached the dining-room; and even +here, before the servants, her shoulders suddenly shook as the scene +returned upon her; and the tears of her hilarity mingled with the +remnants of those engendered by her grief. + +She resolved to be sad no more. She drank two glasses of champagne, and +a little more still after those, and amused herself in the evening with +singing little amatory songs. + +“I must do something for that poor man Winterborne, however,” she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +A week had passed, and Mrs. Charmond had left Hintock House. Middleton +Abbey, the place of her sojourn, was about twenty miles distant by +road, eighteen by bridle-paths and footways. + +Grace observed, for the first time, that her husband was restless, that +at moments he even was disposed to avoid her. The scrupulous civility +of mere acquaintanceship crept into his manner; yet, when sitting at +meals, he seemed hardly to hear her remarks. Her little doings +interested him no longer, while towards her father his bearing was not +far from supercilious. It was plain that his mind was entirely outside +her life, whereabouts outside it she could not tell; in some region of +science, possibly, or of psychological literature. But her hope that he +was again immersing himself in those lucubrations which before her +marriage had made his light a landmark in Hintock, was founded simply +on the slender fact that he often sat up late. + +One evening she discovered him leaning over a gate on Rub-Down Hill, +the gate at which Winterborne had once been standing, and which opened +on the brink of a steep, slanting down directly into Blackmoor Vale, or +the Vale of the White Hart, extending beneath the eye at this point to +a distance of many miles. His attention was fixed on the landscape far +away, and Grace’s approach was so noiseless that he did not hear her. +When she came close she could see his lips moving unconsciously, as to +some impassioned visionary theme. + +She spoke, and Fitzpiers started. “What are you looking at?” she asked. + +“Oh! I was contemplating our old place of Buckbury, in my idle way,” he +said. + +It had seemed to her that he was looking much to the right of that +cradle and tomb of his ancestral dignity; but she made no further +observation, and taking his arm walked home beside him almost in +silence. She did not know that Middleton Abbey lay in the direction of +his gaze. “Are you going to have out Darling this afternoon?” she +asked, presently. Darling being the light-gray mare which Winterborne +had bought for Grace, and which Fitzpiers now constantly used, the +animal having turned out a wonderful bargain, in combining a perfect +docility with an almost human intelligence; moreover, she was not too +young. Fitzpiers was unfamiliar with horses, and he valued these +qualities. + +“Yes,” he replied, “but not to drive. I am riding her. I practise +crossing a horse as often as I can now, for I find that I can take much +shorter cuts on horseback.” + +He had, in fact, taken these riding exercises for about a week, only +since Mrs. Charmond’s absence, his universal practice hitherto having +been to drive. + +Some few days later, Fitzpiers started on the back of this horse to see +a patient in the aforesaid Vale. It was about five o’clock in the +evening when he went away, and at bedtime he had not reached home. +There was nothing very singular in this, though she was not aware that +he had any patient more than five or six miles distant in that +direction. The clock had struck one before Fitzpiers entered the house, +and he came to his room softly, as if anxious not to disturb her. + +The next morning she was stirring considerably earlier than he. + +In the yard there was a conversation going on about the mare; the man +who attended to the horses, Darling included, insisted that the latter +was “hag-rid;” for when he had arrived at the stable that morning she +was in such a state as no horse could be in by honest riding. It was +true that the doctor had stabled her himself when he got home, so that +she was not looked after as she would have been if he had groomed and +fed her; but that did not account for the appearance she presented, if +Mr. Fitzpiers’s journey had been only where he had stated. The +phenomenal exhaustion of Darling, as thus related, was sufficient to +develop a whole series of tales about riding witches and demons, the +narration of which occupied a considerable time. + +Grace returned in-doors. In passing through the outer room she picked +up her husband’s overcoat which he had carelessly flung down across a +chair. A turnpike ticket fell out of the breast-pocket, and she saw +that it had been issued at Middleton Gate. He had therefore visited +Middleton the previous night, a distance of at least five-and-thirty +miles on horseback, there and back. + +During the day she made some inquiries, and learned for the first time +that Mrs. Charmond was staying at Middleton Abbey. She could not resist +an inference—strange as that inference was. + +A few days later he prepared to start again, at the same time and in +the same direction. She knew that the state of the cottager who lived +that way was a mere pretext; she was quite sure he was going to Mrs. +Charmond. Grace was amazed at the mildness of the passion which the +suspicion engendered in her. She was but little excited, and her +jealousy was languid even to death. It told tales of the nature of her +affection for him. In truth, her antenuptial regard for Fitzpiers had +been rather of the quality of awe towards a superior being than of +tender solicitude for a lover. It had been based upon mystery and +strangeness—the mystery of his past, of his knowledge, of his +professional skill, of his beliefs. When this structure of ideals was +demolished by the intimacy of common life, and she found him as merely +human as the Hintock people themselves, a new foundation was in demand +for an enduring and stanch affection—a sympathetic interdependence, +wherein mutual weaknesses were made the grounds of a defensive +alliance. Fitzpiers had furnished none of that single-minded confidence +and truth out of which alone such a second union could spring; hence it +was with a controllable emotion that she now watched the mare brought +round. + +“I’ll walk with you to the hill if you are not in a great hurry,” she +said, rather loath, after all, to let him go. + +“Do; there’s plenty of time,” replied her husband. Accordingly he led +along the horse, and walked beside her, impatient enough nevertheless. +Thus they proceeded to the turnpike road, and ascended Rub-Down Hill to +the gate he had been leaning over when she surprised him ten days +before. This was the end of her excursion. Fitzpiers bade her adieu +with affection, even with tenderness, and she observed that he looked +weary-eyed. + +“Why do you go to-night?” she said. “You have been called up two nights +in succession already.” + +“I must go,” he answered, almost gloomily. “Don’t wait up for me.” With +these words he mounted his horse, passed through the gate which Grace +held open for him, and ambled down the steep bridle-track to the +valley. + +She closed the gate and watched his descent, and then his journey +onward. His way was east, the evening sun which stood behind her back +beaming full upon him as soon as he got out from the shade of the hill. +Notwithstanding this untoward proceeding she was determined to be loyal +if he proved true; and the determination to love one’s best will carry +a heart a long way towards making that best an ever-growing thing. The +conspicuous coat of the active though blanching mare made horse and +rider easy objects for the vision. Though Darling had been chosen with +such pains by Winterborne for Grace, she had never ridden the sleek +creature; but her husband had found the animal exceedingly convenient, +particularly now that he had taken to the saddle, plenty of staying +power being left in Darling yet. Fitzpiers, like others of his +character, while despising Melbury and his station, did not at all +disdain to spend Melbury’s money, or appropriate to his own use the +horse which belonged to Melbury’s daughter. + +And so the infatuated young surgeon went along through the gorgeous +autumn landscape of White Hart Vale, surrounded by orchards lustrous +with the reds of apple-crops, berries, and foliage, the whole +intensified by the gilding of the declining sun. The earth this year +had been prodigally bountiful, and now was the supreme moment of her +bounty. In the poorest spots the hedges were bowed with haws and +blackberries; acorns cracked underfoot, and the burst husks of +chestnuts lay exposing their auburn contents as if arranged by anxious +sellers in a fruit-market. In all this proud show some kernels were +unsound as her own situation, and she wondered if there were one world +in the universe where the fruit had no worm, and marriage no sorrow. + +Herr Tannhäuser still moved on, his plodding steed rendering him +distinctly visible yet. Could she have heard Fitzpiers’s voice at that +moment she would have found him murmuring— + +“...Towards the loadstar of my one desire +I flitted, even as a dizzy moth in the owlet light.” + + +But he was a silent spectacle to her now. Soon he rose out of the +valley, and skirted a high plateau of the chalk formation on his right, +which rested abruptly upon the fruity district of loamy clay, the +character and herbage of the two formations being so distinct that the +calcareous upland appeared but as a deposit of a few years’ antiquity +upon the level vale. He kept along the edge of this high, unenclosed +country, and the sky behind him being deep violet, she could still see +white Darling in relief upon it—a mere speck now—a Wouvermans +eccentricity reduced to microscopic dimensions. Upon this high ground +he gradually disappeared. + +Thus she had beheld the pet animal purchased for her own use, in pure +love of her, by one who had always been true, impressed to convey her +husband away from her to the side of a new-found idol. While she was +musing on the vicissitudes of horses and wives, she discerned shapes +moving up the valley towards her, quite near at hand, though till now +hidden by the hedges. Surely they were Giles Winterborne, with his two +horses and cider-apparatus, conducted by Robert Creedle. Up, upward +they crept, a stray beam of the sun alighting every now and then like a +star on the blades of the pomace-shovels, which had been converted to +steel mirrors by the action of the malic acid. She opened the gate when +he came close, and the panting horses rested as they achieved the +ascent. + +“How do you do, Giles?” said she, under a sudden impulse to be familiar +with him. + +He replied with much more reserve. “You are going for a walk, Mrs. +Fitzpiers?” he added. “It is pleasant just now.” + +“No, I am returning,” said she. + +The vehicles passed through, the gate slammed, and Winterborne walked +by her side in the rear of the apple-mill. + +He looked and smelt like Autumn’s very brother, his face being sunburnt +to wheat-color, his eyes blue as corn-flowers, his boots and leggings +dyed with fruit-stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of +apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that +atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an +indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among +the orchards. Her heart rose from its late sadness like a released +spring; her senses revelled in the sudden lapse back to nature +unadorned. The consciousness of having to be genteel because of her +husband’s profession, the veneer of artificiality which she had +acquired at the fashionable schools, were thrown off, and she became +the crude, country girl of her latent, earliest instincts. + +Nature was bountiful, she thought. No sooner had she been starved off +by Edgar Fitzpiers than another being, impersonating bare and undiluted +manliness, had arisen out of the earth, ready to hand. This was an +excursion of the imagination which she did not encourage, and she said +suddenly, to disguise the confused regard which had followed her +thoughts, “Did you meet my husband?” + +Winterborne, with some hesitation, “Yes.” + +“Where did you meet him?” + +“At Calfhay Cross. I come from Middleton Abbey; I have been making +there for the last week.” + +“Haven’t they a mill of their own?” + +“Yes, but it’s out of repair.” + +“I think—I heard that Mrs. Charmond had gone there to stay?” + +“Yes. I have seen her at the windows once or twice.” + +Grace waited an interval before she went on: “Did Mr. Fitzpiers take +the way to Middleton?” + +“Yes...I met him on Darling.” As she did not reply, he added, with a +gentler inflection, “You know why the mare was called that?” + +“Oh yes—of course,” she answered, quickly. + +They had risen so far over the crest of the hill that the whole west +sky was revealed. Between the broken clouds they could see far into the +recesses of heaven, the eye journeying on under a species of golden +arcades, and past fiery obstructions, fancied cairns, logan-stones, +stalactites and stalagmite of topaz. Deeper than this their gaze passed +thin flakes of incandescence, till it plunged into a bottomless medium +of soft green fire. + +Her abandonment to the luscious time after her sense of ill-usage, her +revolt for the nonce against social law, her passionate desire for +primitive life, may have showed in her face. Winterborne was looking at +her, his eyes lingering on a flower that she wore in her bosom. Almost +with the abstraction of a somnambulist he stretched out his hand and +gently caressed the flower. + +She drew back. “What are you doing, Giles Winterborne!” she exclaimed, +with a look of severe surprise. The evident absence of all +premeditation from the act, however, speedily led her to think that it +was not necessary to stand upon her dignity here and now. “You must +bear in mind, Giles,” she said, kindly, “that we are not as we were; +and some people might have said that what you did was taking a +liberty.” + +It was more than she need have told him; his action of forgetfulness +had made him so angry with himself that he flushed through his tan. “I +don’t know what I am coming to!” he exclaimed, savagely. “Ah—I was not +once like this!” Tears of vexation were in his eyes. + +“No, now—it was nothing. I was too reproachful.” + +“It would not have occurred to me if I had not seen something like it +done elsewhere—at Middleton lately,” he said, thoughtfully, after a +while. + +“By whom?” + +“Don’t ask it.” + +She scanned him narrowly. “I know quite well enough,” she returned, +indifferently. “It was by my husband, and the woman was Mrs. Charmond. +Association of ideas reminded you when you saw me....Giles—tell me all +you know about that—please do, Giles! But no—I won’t hear it. Let the +subject cease. And as you are my friend, say nothing to my father.” + +They reached a place where their ways divided. Winterborne continued +along the highway which kept outside the copse, and Grace opened a gate +that entered it. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +She walked up the soft grassy ride, screened on either hand by +nut-bushes, just now heavy with clusters of twos and threes and fours. +A little way on, the track she pursued was crossed by a similar one at +right angles. Here Grace stopped; some few yards up the transverse ride +the buxom Suke Damson was visible—her gown tucked up high through her +pocket-hole, and no bonnet on her head—in the act of pulling down +boughs from which she was gathering and eating nuts with great +rapidity, her lover Tim Tangs standing near her engaged in the same +pleasant meal. + +Crack, crack went Suke’s jaws every second or two. By an automatic +chain of thought Grace’s mind reverted to the tooth-drawing scene +described by her husband; and for the first time she wondered if that +narrative were really true, Susan’s jaws being so obviously sound and +strong. Grace turned up towards the nut-gatherers, and conquered her +reluctance to speak to the girl who was a little in advance of Tim. +“Good-evening, Susan,” she said. + +“Good-evening, Miss Melbury” (crack). + +“Mrs. Fitzpiers.” + +“Oh yes, ma’am—Mrs. Fitzpiers,” said Suke, with a peculiar smile. + +Grace, not to be daunted, continued: “Take care of your teeth, Suke. +That accounts for the toothache.” + +“I don’t know what an ache is, either in tooth, ear, or head, thank the +Lord” (crack). + +“Nor the loss of one, either?” + +“See for yourself, ma’am.” She parted her red lips, and exhibited the +whole double row, full up and unimpaired. + +“You have never had one drawn?” + +“Never.” + +“So much the better for your stomach,” said Mrs. Fitzpiers, in an +altered voice. And turning away quickly, she went on. + +As her husband’s character thus shaped itself under the touch of time, +Grace was almost startled to find how little she suffered from that +jealous excitement which is conventionally attributed to all wives in +such circumstances. But though possessed by none of that feline +wildness which it was her moral duty to experience, she did not fail to +know that she had made a frightful mistake in her marriage. +Acquiescence in her father’s wishes had been degradation to herself. +People are not given premonitions for nothing; she should have obeyed +her impulse on that early morning, and steadfastly refused her hand. + +Oh, that plausible tale which her then betrothed had told her about +Suke—the dramatic account of her entreaties to him to draw the aching +enemy, and the fine artistic touch he had given to the story by +explaining that it was a lovely molar without a flaw! + +She traced the remainder of the woodland track dazed by the +complications of her position. If his protestations to her before their +marriage could be believed, her husband had felt affection of some sort +for herself and this woman simultaneously; and was now again spreading +the same emotion over Mrs. Charmond and herself conjointly, his manner +being still kind and fond at times. But surely, rather than that, he +must have played the hypocrite towards her in each case with elaborate +completeness; and the thought of this sickened her, for it involved the +conjecture that if he had not loved her, his only motive for making her +his wife must have been her little fortune. Yet here Grace made a +mistake, for the love of men like Fitzpiers is unquestionably of such +quality as to bear division and transference. He had indeed, once +declared, though not to her, that on one occasion he had noticed +himself to be possessed by five distinct infatuations at the same time. +Therein it differed from the highest affection as the lower orders of +the animal world differ from advanced organisms, partition causing, not +death, but a multiplied existence. He had loved her sincerely, and had +by no means ceased to love her now. But such double and treble +barrelled hearts were naturally beyond her conception. + +Of poor Suke Damson, Grace thought no more. She had had her day. + +“If he does not love me I will not love him!” said Grace, proudly. And +though these were mere words, it was a somewhat formidable thing for +Fitzpiers that her heart was approximating to a state in which it might +be possible to carry them out. That very absence of hot jealousy which +made his courses so easy, and on which, indeed, he congratulated +himself, meant, unknown to either wife or husband, more mischief than +the inconvenient watchfulness of a jaundiced eye. + +Her sleep that night was nervous. The wing allotted to her and her +husband had never seemed so lonely. At last she got up, put on her +dressing-gown, and went down-stairs. Her father, who slept lightly, +heard her descend, and came to the stair-head. + +“Is that you, Grace? What’s the matter?” he said. + +“Nothing more than that I am restless. Edgar is detained by a case at +Owlscombe in White Hart Vale.” + +“But how’s that? I saw the woman’s husband at Great Hintock just afore +bedtime; and she was going on well, and the doctor gone then.” + +“Then he’s detained somewhere else,” said Grace. “Never mind me; he +will soon be home. I expect him about one.” + +She went back to her room, and dozed and woke several times. One +o’clock had been the hour of his return on the last occasion; but it +passed now by a long way, and Fitzpiers did not come. Just before dawn +she heard the men stirring in the yard; and the flashes of their +lanterns spread every now and then through her window-blind. She +remembered that her father had told her not to be disturbed if she +noticed them, as they would be rising early to send off four loads of +hurdles to a distant sheep-fair. Peeping out, she saw them bustling +about, the hollow-turner among the rest; he was loading his +wares—wooden-bowls, dishes, spigots, spoons, cheese-vats, funnels, and +so on—upon one of her father’s wagons, who carried them to the fair for +him every year out of neighborly kindness. + +The scene and the occasion would have enlivened her but that her +husband was still absent; though it was now five o’clock. She could +hardly suppose him, whatever his infatuation, to have prolonged to a +later hour than ten an ostensibly professional call on Mrs. Charmond at +Middleton; and he could have ridden home in two hours and a half. What, +then, had become of him? That he had been out the greater part of the +two preceding nights added to her uneasiness. + +She dressed herself, descended, and went out, the weird twilight of +advancing day chilling the rays from the lanterns, and making the men’s +faces wan. As soon as Melbury saw her he came round, showing his alarm. + +“Edgar is not come,” she said. “And I have reason to know that he’s not +attending anybody. He has had no rest for two nights before this. I was +going to the top of the hill to look for him.” + +“I’ll come with you,” said Melbury. + +She begged him not to hinder himself; but he insisted, for he saw a +peculiar and rigid gloom in her face over and above her uneasiness, and +did not like the look of it. Telling the men he would be with them +again soon, he walked beside her into the turnpike-road, and partly up +the hill whence she had watched Fitzpiers the night before across the +Great White Hart or Blackmoor Valley. They halted beneath a half-dead +oak, hollow, and disfigured with white tumors, its roots spreading out +like accipitrine claws grasping the ground. A chilly wind circled round +them, upon whose currents the seeds of a neighboring lime-tree, +supported parachute-wise by the wing attached, flew out of the boughs +downward like fledglings from their nest. The vale was wrapped in a dim +atmosphere of unnaturalness, and the east was like a livid curtain +edged with pink. There was no sign nor sound of Fitzpiers. + +“It is no use standing here,” said her father. “He may come home fifty +ways...why, look here!—here be Darling’s tracks—turned homeward and +nearly blown dry and hard! He must have come in hours ago without your +seeing him.” + +“He has not done that,” said she. + +They went back hastily. On entering their own gates they perceived that +the men had left the wagons, and were standing round the door of the +stable which had been appropriated to the doctor’s use. “Is there +anything the matter?” cried Grace. + +“Oh no, ma’am. All’s well that ends well,” said old Timothy Tangs. +“I’ve heard of such things before—among workfolk, though not among your +gentle people—that’s true.” + +They entered the stable, and saw the pale shape of Darling standing in +the middle of her stall, with Fitzpiers on her back, sound asleep. +Darling was munching hay as well as she could with the bit in her +month, and the reins, which had fallen from Fitzpiers’s hand, hung upon +her neck. + +Grace went and touched his hand; shook it before she could arouse him. +He moved, started, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, “Ah, Felice!...Oh, +it’s Grace. I could not see in the gloom. What—am I in the saddle?” + +“Yes,” said she. “How do you come here?” + +He collected his thoughts, and in a few minutes stammered, “I was +riding along homeward through the vale, very, very sleepy, having been +up so much of late. When I came opposite Holywell spring the mare +turned her head that way, as if she wanted to drink. I let her go in, +and she drank; I thought she would never finish. While she was +drinking, the clock of Owlscombe Church struck twelve. I distinctly +remember counting the strokes. From that moment I positively recollect +nothing till I saw you here by my side.” + +“The name! If it had been any other horse he’d have had a broken neck!” +murmured Melbury. + +“’Tis wonderful, sure, how a quiet hoss will bring a man home at such +times!” said John Upjohn. “And what’s more wonderful than keeping your +seat in a deep, slumbering sleep? I’ve knowed men drowze off walking +home from randies where the mead and other liquors have gone round +well, and keep walking for more than a mile on end without waking. +Well, doctor, I don’t care who the man is, ’tis a mercy you wasn’t a +drownded, or a splintered, or a hanged up to a tree like Absalom—also a +handsome gentleman like yerself, as the prophets say.” + +“True,” murmured old Timothy. “From the soul of his foot to the crown +of his head there was no blemish in him.” + +“Or leastwise you might ha’ been a-wownded into tatters a’most, and no +doctor to jine your few limbs together within seven mile!” + +While this grim address was proceeding, Fitzpiers had dismounted, and +taking Grace’s arm walked stiffly in-doors with her. Melbury stood +staring at the horse, which, in addition to being very weary, was +spattered with mud. There was no mud to speak of about the Hintocks +just now—only in the clammy hollows of the vale beyond Owlscombe, the +stiff soil of which retained moisture for weeks after the uplands were +dry. While they were rubbing down the mare, Melbury’s mind coupled with +the foreign quality of the mud the name he had heard unconsciously +muttered by the surgeon when Grace took his hand—“Felice.” Who was +Felice? Why, Mrs. Charmond; and she, as he knew, was staying at +Middleton. + +Melbury had indeed pounced upon the image that filled Fitzpiers’s +half-awakened soul—wherein there had been a picture of a recent +interview on a lawn with a capriciously passionate woman who had begged +him not to come again in tones whose vibration incited him to disobey. +“What are you doing here? Why do you pursue me? Another belongs to you. +If they were to see you they would seize you as a thief!” And she had +turbulently admitted to his wringing questions that her visit to +Middleton had been undertaken less because of the invalid relative than +in shamefaced fear of her own weakness if she remained near his home. A +triumph then it was to Fitzpiers, poor and hampered as he had become, +to recognize his real conquest of this beauty, delayed so many years. +His was the selfish passion of Congreve’s Millamont, to whom love’s +supreme delight lay in “that heart which others bleed for, bleed for +me.” + +When the horse had been attended to Melbury stood uneasily here and +there about his premises; he was rudely disturbed in the comfortable +views which had lately possessed him on his domestic concerns. It is +true that he had for some days discerned that Grace more and more +sought his company, preferred supervising his kitchen and bakehouse +with her step-mother to occupying herself with the lighter details of +her own apartments. She seemed no longer able to find in her own hearth +an adequate focus for her life, and hence, like a weak queen-bee after +leading off to an independent home, had hovered again into the parent +hive. But he had not construed these and other incidents of the kind +till now. + +Something was wrong in the dove-cot. A ghastly sense that he alone +would be responsible for whatever unhappiness should be brought upon +her for whom he almost solely lived, whom to retain under his roof he +had faced the numerous inconveniences involved in giving up the best +part of his house to Fitzpiers. There was no room for doubt that, had +he allowed events to take their natural course, she would have accepted +Winterborne, and realized his old dream of restitution to that young +man’s family. + +That Fitzpiers could allow himself to look on any other creature for a +moment than Grace filled Melbury with grief and astonishment. In the +pure and simple life he had led it had scarcely occurred to him that +after marriage a man might be faithless. That he could sweep to the +heights of Mrs. Charmond’s position, lift the veil of Isis, so to +speak, would have amazed Melbury by its audacity if he had not +suspected encouragement from that quarter. What could he and his simple +Grace do to countervail the passions of such as those two sophisticated +beings—versed in the world’s ways, armed with every apparatus for +victory? In such an encounter the homely timber-dealer felt as inferior +as a bow-and-arrow savage before the precise weapons of modern warfare. + +Grace came out of the house as the morning drew on. The village was +silent, most of the folk having gone to the fair. Fitzpiers had retired +to bed, and was sleeping off his fatigue. She went to the stable and +looked at poor Darling: in all probability Giles Winterborne, by +obtaining for her a horse of such intelligence and docility, had been +the means of saving her husband’s life. She paused over the strange +thought; and then there appeared her father behind her. She saw that he +knew things were not as they ought to be, from the troubled dulness of +his eye, and from his face, different points of which had independent +motions, twitchings, and tremblings, unknown to himself, and +involuntary. + +“He was detained, I suppose, last night?” said Melbury. + +“Oh yes; a bad case in the vale,” she replied, calmly. + +“Nevertheless, he should have stayed at home.” + +“But he couldn’t, father.” + +Her father turned away. He could hardly bear to see his whilom truthful +girl brought to the humiliation of having to talk like that. + +That night carking care sat beside Melbury’s pillow, and his stiff +limbs tossed at its presence. “I can’t lie here any longer,” he +muttered. Striking a light, he wandered about the room. “What have I +done—what have I done for her?” he said to his wife, who had anxiously +awakened. “I had long planned that she should marry the son of the man +I wanted to make amends to; do ye mind how I told you all about it, +Lucy, the night before she came home? Ah! but I was not content with +doing right, I wanted to do more!” + +“Don’t raft yourself without good need, George,” she replied. “I won’t +quite believe that things are so much amiss. I won’t believe that Mrs. +Charmond has encouraged him. Even supposing she has encouraged a great +many, she can have no motive to do it now. What so likely as that she +is not yet quite well, and doesn’t care to let another doctor come near +her?” + +He did not heed. “Grace used to be so busy every day, with fixing a +curtain here and driving a tin-tack there; but she cares for no +employment now!” + +“Do you know anything of Mrs. Charmond’s past history? Perhaps that +would throw some light upon things. Before she came here as the wife of +old Charmond four or five years ago, not a soul seems to have heard +aught of her. Why not make inquiries? And then do ye wait and see more; +there’ll be plenty of opportunity. Time enough to cry when you know +’tis a crying matter; and ’tis bad to meet troubles half-way.” + +There was some good-sense in the notion of seeing further. Melbury +resolved to inquire and wait, hoping still, but oppressed +between-whiles with much fear. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +Examine Grace as her father might, she would admit nothing. For the +present, therefore, he simply watched. + +The suspicion that his darling child was being slighted wrought almost +a miraculous change in Melbury’s nature. No man so furtive for the time +as the ingenuous countryman who finds that his ingenuousness has been +abused. Melbury’s heretofore confidential candor towards his +gentlemanly son-in-law was displaced by a feline stealth that did +injury to his every action, thought, and mood. He knew that a woman +once given to a man for life took, as a rule, her lot as it came and +made the best of it, without external interference; but for the first +time he asked himself why this so generally should be so. Moreover, +this case was not, he argued, like ordinary cases. Leaving out the +question of Grace being anything but an ordinary woman, her peculiar +situation, as it were in mid-air between two planes of society, +together with the loneliness of Hintock, made a husband’s neglect a far +more tragical matter to her than it would be to one who had a large +circle of friends to fall back upon. Wisely or unwisely, and whatever +other fathers did, he resolved to fight his daughter’s battle still. + +Mrs. Charmond had returned. But Hintock House scarcely gave forth signs +of life, so quietly had she reentered it. He went to church at Great +Hintock one afternoon as usual, there being no service at the smaller +village. A few minutes before his departure, he had casually heard +Fitzpiers, who was no church-goer, tell his wife that he was going to +walk in the wood. Melbury entered the building and sat down in his pew; +the parson came in, then Mrs. Charmond, then Mr. Fitzpiers. + +The service proceeded, and the jealous father was quite sure that a +mutual consciousness was uninterruptedly maintained between those two; +he fancied that more than once their eyes met. At the end, Fitzpiers so +timed his movement into the aisle that it exactly coincided with Felice +Charmond’s from the opposite side, and they walked out with their +garments in contact, the surgeon being just that two or three inches in +her rear which made it convenient for his eyes to rest upon her cheek. +The cheek warmed up to a richer tone. + +This was a worse feature in the flirtation than he had expected. If she +had been playing with him in an idle freak the game might soon have +wearied her; but the smallest germ of passion—and women of the world do +not change color for nothing—was a threatening development. The mere +presence of Fitzpiers in the building, after his statement, was +wellnigh conclusive as far as he was concerned; but Melbury resolved +yet to watch. + +He had to wait long. Autumn drew shiveringly to its end. One day +something seemed to be gone from the gardens; the tenderer leaves of +vegetables had shrunk under the first smart frost, and hung like faded +linen rags; then the forest leaves, which had been descending at +leisure, descended in haste and in multitudes, and all the golden +colors that had hung overhead were now crowded together in a degraded +mass underfoot, where the fallen myriads got redder and hornier, and +curled themselves up to rot. The only suspicious features in Mrs. +Charmond’s existence at this season were two: the first, that she lived +with no companion or relative about her, which, considering her age and +attractions, was somewhat unusual conduct for a young widow in a lonely +country-house; the other, that she did not, as in previous years, start +from Hintock to winter abroad. In Fitzpiers, the only change from his +last autumn’s habits lay in his abandonment of night study—his lamp +never shone from his new dwelling as from his old. + +If the suspected ones met, it was by such adroit contrivances that even +Melbury’s vigilance could not encounter them together. A simple call at +her house by the doctor had nothing irregular about it, and that he had +paid two or three such calls was certain. What had passed at those +interviews was known only to the parties themselves; but that Felice +Charmond was under some one’s influence Melbury soon had opportunity of +perceiving. + +Winter had come on. Owls began to be noisy in the mornings and +evenings, and flocks of wood-pigeons made themselves prominent again. +One day in February, about six months after the marriage of Fitzpiers, +Melbury was returning from Great Hintock on foot through the lane, when +he saw before him the surgeon also walking. Melbury would have +overtaken him, but at that moment Fitzpiers turned in through a gate to +one of the rambling drives among the trees at this side of the wood, +which led to nowhere in particular, and the beauty of whose serpentine +curves was the only justification of their existence. Felice almost +simultaneously trotted down the lane towards the timber-dealer, in a +little basket-carriage which she sometimes drove about the estate, +unaccompanied by a servant. She turned in at the same place without +having seen either Melbury or apparently Fitzpiers. Melbury was soon at +the spot, despite his aches and his sixty years. Mrs. Charmond had come +up with the doctor, who was standing immediately behind the carriage. +She had turned to him, her arm being thrown carelessly over the back of +the seat. They looked in each other’s faces without uttering a word, an +arch yet gloomy smile wreathing her lips. Fitzpiers clasped her hanging +hand, and, while she still remained in the same listless attitude, +looking volumes into his eyes, he stealthily unbuttoned her glove, and +stripped her hand of it by rolling back the gauntlet over the fingers, +so that it came off inside out. He then raised her hand to his month, +she still reclining passively, watching him as she might have watched a +fly upon her dress. At last she said, “Well, sir, what excuse for this +disobedience?” + +“I make none.” + +“Then go your way, and let me go mine.” She snatched away her hand, +touched the pony with the whip, and left him standing there, holding +the reversed glove. + +Melbury’s first impulse was to reveal his presence to Fitzpiers, and +upbraid him bitterly. But a moment’s thought was sufficient to show him +the futility of any such simple proceeding. There was not, after all, +so much in what he had witnessed as in what that scene might be the +surface and froth of—probably a state of mind on which censure operates +as an aggravation rather than as a cure. Moreover, he said to himself +that the point of attack should be the woman, if either. He therefore +kept out of sight, and musing sadly, even tearfully—for he was meek as +a child in matters concerning his daughter—continued his way towards +Hintock. + +The insight which is bred of deep sympathy was never more finely +exemplified than in this instance. Through her guarded manner, her +dignified speech, her placid countenance, he discerned the interior of +Grace’s life only too truly, hidden as were its incidents from every +outer eye. + +These incidents had become painful enough. Fitzpiers had latterly +developed an irritable discontent which vented itself in monologues +when Grace was present to hear them. The early morning of this day had +been dull, after a night of wind, and on looking out of the window +Fitzpiers had observed some of Melbury’s men dragging away a large limb +which had been snapped off a beech-tree. Everything was cold and +colorless. + +“My good Heaven!” he said, as he stood in his dressing-gown. “This is +life!” He did not know whether Grace was awake or not, and he would not +turn his head to ascertain. “Ah, fool,” he went on to himself, “to clip +your own wings when you were free to soar!...But I could not rest till +I had done it. Why do I never recognize an opportunity till I have +missed it, nor the good or ill of a step till it is irrevocable!...I +fell in love....Love, indeed!— + +“‘Love’s but the frailty of the mind +When ’tis not with ambition joined; +A sickly flame which if not fed, expires, +And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires!’ + + +Ah, old author of ‘The Way of the World,’ you knew—you knew!” Grace +moved. He thought she had heard some part of his soliloquy. He was +sorry—though he had not taken any precaution to prevent her. + +He expected a scene at breakfast, but she only exhibited an extreme +reserve. It was enough, however, to make him repent that he should have +done anything to produce discomfort; for he attributed her manner +entirely to what he had said. But Grace’s manner had not its cause +either in his sayings or in his doings. She had not heard a single word +of his regrets. Something even nearer home than her husband’s blighted +prospects—if blighted they were—was the origin of her mood, a mood that +was the mere continuation of what her father had noticed when he would +have preferred a passionate jealousy in her, as the more natural. + +She had made a discovery—one which to a girl of honest nature was +almost appalling. She had looked into her heart, and found that her +early interest in Giles Winterborne had become revitalized into +luxuriant growth by her widening perceptions of what was great and +little in life. His homeliness no longer offended her acquired tastes; +his comparative want of so-called culture did not now jar on her +intellect; his country dress even pleased her eye; his exterior +roughness fascinated her. Having discovered by marriage how much that +was humanly not great could co-exist with attainments of an exceptional +order, there was a revulsion in her sentiments from all that she had +formerly clung to in this kind: honesty, goodness, manliness, +tenderness, devotion, for her only existed in their purity now in the +breasts of unvarnished men; and here was one who had manifested them +towards her from his youth up. + +There was, further, that never-ceasing pity in her soul for Giles as a +man whom she had wronged—a man who had been unfortunate in his worldly +transactions; while, not without a touch of sublimity, he had, like +Horatio, borne himself throughout his scathing + +“As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing.” + + +It was these perceptions, and no subtle catching of her husband’s +murmurs, that had bred the abstraction visible in her. + +When her father approached the house after witnessing the interview +between Fitzpiers and Mrs. Charmond, Grace was looking out of her +sitting-room window, as if she had nothing to do, or think of, or care +for. He stood still. + +“Ah, Grace,” he said, regarding her fixedly. + +“Yes, father,” she murmured. + +“Waiting for your dear husband?” he inquired, speaking with the sarcasm +of pitiful affection. + +“Oh no—not especially. He has a great many patients to see this +afternoon.” + +Melbury came quite close. “Grace, what’s the use of talking like that, +when you know—Here, come down and walk with me out in the garden, +child.” + +He unfastened the door in the ivy-laced wall, and waited. This apparent +indifference alarmed him. He would far rather that she had rushed in +all the fire of jealousy to Hintock House, regardless of +conventionality, confronted and attacked Felice Charmond _unguibus et +rostro_, and accused her even in exaggerated shape of stealing away her +husband. Such a storm might have cleared the air. + +She emerged in a minute or two, and they went inside together. “You +know as well as I do,” he resumed, “that there is something threatening +mischief to your life; and yet you pretend you do not. Do you suppose I +don’t see the trouble in your face every day? I am very sure that this +quietude is wrong conduct in you. You should look more into matters.” + +“I am quiet because my sadness is not of a nature to stir me to +action.” + +Melbury wanted to ask her a dozen questions—did she not feel jealous? +was she not indignant? but a natural delicacy restrained him. “You are +very tame and let-alone, I am bound to say,” he remarked, pointedly. + +“I am what I feel, father,” she repeated. + +He glanced at her, and there returned upon his mind the scene of her +offering to wed Winterborne instead of Fitzpiers in the last days +before her marriage; and he asked himself if it could be the fact that +she loved Winterborne, now that she had lost him, more than she had +ever done when she was comparatively free to choose him. + +“What would you have me do?” she asked, in a low voice. + +He recalled his mind from the retrospective pain to the practical +matter before them. “I would have you go to Mrs. Charmond,” he said. + +“Go to Mrs. Charmond—what for?” said she. + +“Well—if I must speak plain, dear Grace—to ask her, appeal to her in +the name of your common womanhood, and your many like sentiments on +things, not to make unhappiness between you and your husband. It lies +with her entirely to do one or the other—that I can see.” + +Grace’s face had heated at her father’s words, and the very rustle of +her skirts upon the box-edging bespoke hauteur. “I shall not think of +going to her, father—of course I could not!” she answered. + +“Why—don’t ’ee want to be happier than you be at present?” said +Melbury, more moved on her account than she was herself. + +“I don’t wish to be more humiliated. If I have anything to bear I can +bear it in silence.” + +“But, my dear maid, you are too young—you don’t know what the present +state of things may lead to. Just see the harm done a’ready! Your +husband would have gone away to Budmouth to a bigger practice if it had +not been for this. Although it has gone such a little way, it is +poisoning your future even now. Mrs. Charmond is thoughtlessly bad, not +bad by calculation; and just a word to her now might save ’ee a peck of +woes.” + +“Ah, I loved her once,” said Grace, with a broken articulation, “and +she would not care for me then! Now I no longer love her. Let her do +her worst: I don’t care.” + +“You ought to care. You have got into a very good position to start +with. You have been well educated, well tended, and you have become the +wife of a professional man of unusually good family. Surely you ought +to make the best of your position.” + +“I don’t see that I ought. I wish I had never got into it. I wish you +had never, never thought of educating me. I wish I worked in the woods +like Marty South. I hate genteel life, and I want to be no better than +she.” + +“Why?” said her amazed father. + +“Because cultivation has only brought me inconveniences and troubles. I +say again, I wish you had never sent me to those fashionable schools +you set your mind on. It all arose out of that, father. If I had stayed +at home I should have married—” She closed up her mouth suddenly and +was silent; and he saw that she was not far from crying. + +Melbury was much grieved. “What, and would you like to have grown up as +we be here in Hintock—knowing no more, and with no more chance of +seeing good life than we have here?” + +“Yes. I have never got any happiness outside Hintock that I know of, +and I have suffered many a heartache at being sent away. Oh, the misery +of those January days when I had got back to school, and left you all +here in the wood so happy. I used to wonder why I had to bear it. And I +was always a little despised by the other girls at school, because they +knew where I came from, and that my parents were not in so good a +station as theirs.” + +Her poor father was much hurt at what he thought her ingratitude and +intractability. He had admitted to himself bitterly enough that he +should have let young hearts have their way, or rather should have +helped on her affection for Winterborne, and given her to him according +to his original plan; but he was not prepared for her deprecation of +those attainments whose completion had been a labor of years, and a +severe tax upon his purse. + +“Very well,” he said, with much heaviness of spirit. “If you don’t like +to go to her I don’t wish to force you.” + +And so the question remained for him still: how should he remedy this +perilous state of things? For days he sat in a moody attitude over the +fire, a pitcher of cider standing on the hearth beside him, and his +drinking-horn inverted upon the top of it. He spent a week and more +thus composing a letter to the chief offender, which he would every now +and then attempt to complete, and suddenly crumple up in his hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +As February merged in March, and lighter evenings broke the gloom of +the woodmen’s homeward journey, the Hintocks Great and Little began to +have ears for a rumor of the events out of which had grown the +timber-dealer’s troubles. It took the form of a wide sprinkling of +conjecture, wherein no man knew the exact truth. Tantalizing phenomena, +at once showing and concealing the real relationship of the persons +concerned, caused a diffusion of excited surprise. Honest people as the +woodlanders were, it was hardly to be expected that they could remain +immersed in the study of their trees and gardens amid such +circumstances, or sit with their backs turned like the good burghers of +Coventry at the passage of the beautiful lady. + +Rumor, for a wonder, exaggerated little. There were, in fact, in this +case as in thousands, the well-worn incidents, old as the hills, which, +with individual variations, made a mourner of Ariadne, a by-word of +Vashti, and a corpse of the Countess Amy. There were rencounters +accidental and contrived, stealthy correspondence, sudden misgivings on +one side, sudden self-reproaches on the other. The inner state of the +twain was one as of confused noise that would not allow the accents of +calmer reason to be heard. Determinations to go in this direction, and +headlong plunges in that; dignified safeguards, undignified collapses; +not a single rash step by deliberate intention, and all against +judgment. + +It was all that Melbury had expected and feared. It was more, for he +had overlooked the publicity that would be likely to result, as it now +had done. What should he do—appeal to Mrs. Charmond himself, since +Grace would not? He bethought himself of Winterborne, and resolved to +consult him, feeling the strong need of some friend of his own sex to +whom he might unburden his mind. + +He had entirely lost faith in his own judgment. That judgment on which +he had relied for so many years seemed recently, like a false companion +unmasked, to have disclosed unexpected depths of hypocrisy and +speciousness where all had seemed solidity. He felt almost afraid to +form a conjecture on the weather, or the time, or the fruit-promise, so +great was his self-abasement. + +It was a rimy evening when he set out to look for Giles. The woods +seemed to be in a cold sweat; beads of perspiration hung from every +bare twig; the sky had no color, and the trees rose before him as +haggard, gray phantoms, whose days of substantiality were passed. +Melbury seldom saw Winterborne now, but he believed him to be occupying +a lonely hut just beyond the boundary of Mrs. Charmond’s estate, though +still within the circuit of the woodland. The timber-merchant’s thin +legs stalked on through the pale, damp scenery, his eyes on the dead +leaves of last year; while every now and then a hasty “Ay?” escaped his +lips in reply to some bitter proposition. + +His notice was attracted by a thin blue haze of smoke, behind which +arose sounds of voices and chopping: bending his steps that way, he saw +Winterborne just in front of him. It just now happened that Giles, +after being for a long time apathetic and unemployed, had become one of +the busiest men in the neighborhood. It is often thus; fallen friends, +lost sight of, we expect to find starving; we discover them going on +fairly well. Without any solicitation, or desire for profit on his +part, he had been asked to execute during that winter a very large +order for hurdles and other copse-ware, for which purpose he had been +obliged to buy several acres of brushwood standing. He was now engaged +in the cutting and manufacture of the same, proceeding with the work +daily like an automaton. + +The hazel-tree did not belie its name to-day. The whole of the +copse-wood where the mist had cleared returned purest tints of that +hue, amid which Winterborne himself was in the act of making a hurdle, +the stakes being driven firmly into the ground in a row, over which he +bent and wove the twigs. Beside him was a square, compact pile like the +altar of Cain, formed of hurdles already finished, which bristled on +all sides with the sharp points of their stakes. At a little distance +the men in his employ were assisting him to carry out his contract. +Rows of copse-wood lay on the ground as it had fallen under the axe; +and a shelter had been constructed near at hand, in front of which +burned the fire whose smoke had attracted him. The air was so dank that +the smoke hung heavy, and crept away amid the bushes without rising +from the ground. + +After wistfully regarding Winterborne a while, Melbury drew nearer, and +briefly inquired of Giles how he came to be so busily engaged, with an +undertone of slight surprise that Winterborne could seem so thriving +after being deprived of Grace. Melbury was not without emotion at the +meeting; for Grace’s affairs had divided them, and ended their intimacy +of old times. + +Winterborne explained just as briefly, without raising his eyes from +his occupation of chopping a bough that he held in front of him. + +“’Twill be up in April before you get it all cleared,” said Melbury. + +“Yes, there or thereabouts,” said Winterborne, a chop of the billhook +jerking the last word into two pieces. + +There was another interval; Melbury still looked on, a chip from +Winterborne’s hook occasionally flying against the waistcoat and legs +of his visitor, who took no heed. + +“Ah, Giles—you should have been my partner. You should have been my +son-in-law,” the old man said at last. “It would have been far better +for her and for me.” + +Winterborne saw that something had gone wrong with his former friend, +and throwing down the switch he was about to interweave, he responded +only too readily to the mood of the timber-dealer. “Is she ill?” he +said, hurriedly. + +“No, no.” Melbury stood without speaking for some minutes, and then, as +though he could not bring himself to proceed, turned to go away. + +Winterborne told one of his men to pack up the tools for the night and +walked after Melbury. + +“Heaven forbid that I should seem too inquisitive, sir,” he said, +“especially since we don’t stand as we used to stand to one another; +but I hope it is well with them all over your way?” + +“No,” said Melbury—“no.” He stopped, and struck the smooth trunk of a +young ash-tree with the flat of his hand. “I would that his ear had +been where that rind is!” he exclaimed; “I should have treated him to +little compared wi what he deserves.” + +“Now,” said Winterborne, “don’t be in a hurry to go home. I’ve put some +cider down to warm in my shelter here, and we’ll sit and drink it and +talk this over.” + +Melbury turned unresistingly as Giles took his arm, and they went back +to where the fire was, and sat down under the screen, the other woodmen +having gone. He drew out the cider-mug from the ashes and they drank +together. + +“Giles, you ought to have had her, as I said just now,” repeated +Melbury. “I’ll tell you why for the first time.” + +He thereupon told Winterborne, as with great relief, the story of how +he won away Giles’s father’s chosen one—by nothing worse than a lover’s +cajoleries, it is true, but by means which, except in love, would +certainly have been pronounced cruel and unfair. He explained how he +had always intended to make reparation to Winterborne the father by +giving Grace to Winterborne the son, till the devil tempted him in the +person of Fitzpiers, and he broke his virtuous vow. + +“How highly I thought of that man, to be sure! Who’d have supposed he’d +have been so weak and wrong-headed as this! You ought to have had her, +Giles, and there’s an end on’t.” + +Winterborne knew how to preserve his calm under this unconsciously +cruel tearing of a healing wound to which Melbury’s concentration on +the more vital subject had blinded him. The young man endeavored to +make the best of the case for Grace’s sake. + +“She would hardly have been happy with me,” he said, in the dry, +unimpassioned voice under which he hid his feelings. “I was not well +enough educated: too rough, in short. I couldn’t have surrounded her +with the refinements she looked for, anyhow, at all.” + +“Nonsense—you are quite wrong there,” said the unwise old man, +doggedly. “She told me only this day that she hates refinements and +such like. All that my trouble and money bought for her in that way is +thrown away upon her quite. She’d fain be like Marty South—think o’ +that! That’s the top of her ambition! Perhaps she’s right. Giles, she +loved you—under the rind; and, what’s more, she loves ye still—worse +luck for the poor maid!” + +If Melbury only had known what fires he was recklessly stirring up he +might have held his peace. Winterborne was silent a long time. The +darkness had closed in round them, and the monotonous drip of the fog +from the branches quickened as it turned to fine rain. + +“Oh, she never cared much for me,” Giles managed to say, as he stirred +the embers with a brand. + +“She did, and does, I tell ye,” said the other, obstinately. “However, +all that’s vain talking now. What I come to ask you about is a more +practical matter—how to make the best of things as they are. I am +thinking of a desperate step—of calling on the woman Charmond. I am +going to appeal to her, since Grace will not. ’Tis she who holds the +balance in her hands—not he. While she’s got the will to lead him +astray he will follow—poor, unpractical, lofty-notioned dreamer—and how +long she’ll do it depends upon her whim. Did ye ever hear anything +about her character before she came to Hintock?” + +“She’s been a bit of a charmer in her time, I believe,” replied Giles, +with the same level quietude, as he regarded the red coals. “One who +has smiled where she has not loved and loved where she has not married. +Before Mr. Charmond made her his wife she was a play-actress.” + +“Hey? But how close you have kept all this, Giles! What besides?” + +“Mr. Charmond was a rich man, engaged in the iron trade in the north, +twenty or thirty years older than she. He married her and retired, and +came down here and bought this property, as they do nowadays.” + +“Yes, yes—I know all about that; but the other I did not know. I fear +it bodes no good. For how can I go and appeal to the forbearance of a +woman in this matter who has made cross-loves and crooked entanglements +her trade for years? I thank ye, Giles, for finding it out; but it +makes my plan the harder that she should have belonged to that unstable +tribe.” + +Another pause ensued, and they looked gloomily at the smoke that beat +about the hurdles which sheltered them, through whose weavings a large +drop of rain fell at intervals and spat smartly into the fire. Mrs. +Charmond had been no friend to Winterborne, but he was manly, and it +was not in his heart to let her be condemned without a trial. + +“She is said to be generous,” he answered. “You might not appeal to her +in vain.” + +“It shall be done,” said Melbury, rising. “For good or for evil, to +Mrs. Charmond I’ll go.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +At nine o’clock the next morning Melbury dressed himself up in shining +broadcloth, creased with folding and smelling of camphor, and started +for Hintock House. He was the more impelled to go at once by the +absence of his son-in-law in London for a few days, to attend, really +or ostensibly, some professional meetings. He said nothing of his +destination either to his wife or to Grace, fearing that they might +entreat him to abandon so risky a project, and went out unobserved. He +had chosen his time with a view, as he supposed, of conveniently +catching Mrs. Charmond when she had just finished her breakfast, before +any other business people should be about, if any came. Plodding +thoughtfully onward, he crossed a glade lying between Little Hintock +Woods and the plantation which abutted on the park; and the spot being +open, he was discerned there by Winterborne from the copse on the next +hill, where he and his men were working. Knowing his mission, the +younger man hastened down from the copse and managed to intercept the +timber-merchant. + +“I have been thinking of this, sir,” he said, “and I am of opinion that +it would be best to put off your visit for the present.” + +But Melbury would not even stop to hear him. His mind was made up, the +appeal was to be made; and Winterborne stood and watched him sadly till +he entered the second plantation and disappeared. + +Melbury rang at the tradesmen’s door of the manor-house, and was at +once informed that the lady was not yet visible, as indeed he might +have guessed had he been anybody but the man he was. Melbury said he +would wait, whereupon the young man informed him in a neighborly way +that, between themselves, she was in bed and asleep. + +“Never mind,” said Melbury, retreating into the court, “I’ll stand +about here.” Charged so fully with his mission, he shrank from contact +with anybody. + +But he walked about the paved court till he was tired, and still nobody +came to him. At last he entered the house and sat down in a small +waiting-room, from which he got glimpses of the kitchen corridor, and +of the white-capped maids flitting jauntily hither and thither. They +had heard of his arrival, but had not seen him enter, and, imagining +him still in the court, discussed freely the possible reason of his +calling. They marvelled at his temerity; for though most of the tongues +which had been let loose attributed the chief blame-worthiness to +Fitzpiers, these of her household preferred to regard their mistress as +the deeper sinner. + +Melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thorn +walking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use. The +scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but a +tragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. Through this +vision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here and +there, as an outer landscape through the high-colored scenes of a +stained window. He waited thus an hour, an hour and a half, two hours. +He began to look pale and ill, whereupon the butler, who came in, asked +him to have a glass of wine. Melbury roused himself and said, “No, no. +Is she almost ready?” + +“She is just finishing breakfast,” said the butler. “She will soon see +you now. I am just going up to tell her you are here.” + +“What! haven’t you told her before?” said Melbury. + +“Oh no,” said the other. “You see you came so very early.” + +At last the bell rang: Mrs. Charmond could see him. She was not in her +private sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard her +coming from the front staircase, and she entered where he stood. + +At this time of the morning Mrs. Charmond looked her full age and more. +She might almost have been taken for the typical _femme de trente ans_, +though she was really not more than seven or eight and twenty. There +being no fire in the room, she came in with a shawl thrown loosely +round her shoulders, and obviously without the least suspicion that +Melbury had called upon any other errand than timber. Felice was, +indeed, the only woman in the parish who had not heard the rumor of her +own weaknesses; she was at this moment living in a fool’s paradise in +respect of that rumor, though not in respect of the weaknesses +themselves, which, if the truth be told, caused her grave misgivings. + +“Do sit down, Mr. Melbury. You have felled all the trees that were to +be purchased by you this season, except the oaks, I believe.” + +“Yes,” said Melbury. + +“How very nice! It must be so charming to work in the woods just now!” + +She was too careless to affect an interest in an extraneous person’s +affairs so consummately as to deceive in the manner of the perfect +social machine. Hence her words “very nice,” “so charming,” were +uttered with a perfunctoriness that made them sound absurdly unreal. + +“Yes, yes,” said Melbury, in a reverie. He did not take a chair, and +she also remained standing. Resting upon his stick, he began: “Mrs. +Charmond, I have called upon a more serious matter—at least to me—than +tree-throwing. And whatever mistakes I make in my manner of speaking +upon it to you, madam, do me the justice to set ’em down to my want of +practice, and not to my want of care.” + +Mrs. Charmond looked ill at ease. She might have begun to guess his +meaning; but apart from that, she had such dread of contact with +anything painful, harsh, or even earnest, that his preliminaries alone +were enough to distress her. “Yes, what is it?” she said. + +“I am an old man,” said Melbury, “whom, somewhat late in life, God +thought fit to bless with one child, and she a daughter. Her mother was +a very dear wife to me, but she was taken away from us when the child +was young, and the child became precious as the apple of my eye to me, +for she was all I had left to love. For her sake entirely I married as +second wife a homespun woman who had been kind as a mother to her. In +due time the question of her education came on, and I said, ‘I will +educate the maid well, if I live upon bread to do it.’ Of her possible +marriage I could not bear to think, for it seemed like a death that she +should cleave to another man, and grow to think his house her home +rather than mine. But I saw it was the law of nature that this should +be, and that it was for the maid’s happiness that she should have a +home when I was gone; and I made up my mind without a murmur to help it +on for her sake. In my youth I had wronged my dead friend, and to make +amends I determined to give her, my most precious possession, to my +friend’s son, seeing that they liked each other well. Things came about +which made me doubt if it would be for my daughter’s happiness to do +this, inasmuch as the young man was poor, and she was delicately +reared. Another man came and paid court to her—one her equal in +breeding and accomplishments; in every way it seemed to me that he only +could give her the home which her training had made a necessity almost. +I urged her on, and she married him. But, ma’am, a fatal mistake was at +the root of my reckoning. I found that this well-born gentleman I had +calculated on so surely was not stanch of heart, and that therein lay a +danger of great sorrow for my daughter. Madam, he saw you, and you know +the rest....I have come to make no demands—to utter no threats; I have +come simply as a father in great grief about this only child, and I +beseech you to deal kindly with my daughter, and to do nothing which +can turn her husband’s heart away from her forever. Forbid him your +presence, ma’am, and speak to him on his duty as one with your power +over him well can do, and I am hopeful that the rent between them may +be patched up. For it is not as if you would lose by so doing; your +course is far higher than the courses of a simple professional man, and +the gratitude you would win from me and mine by your kindness is more +than I can say.” + +Mrs. Charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation on +comprehending Melbury’s story; hot and cold by turns, she had murmured, +“Leave me, leave me!” But as he seemed to take no notice of this, his +words began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said, +with hurried, hot breath, “What has led you to think this of me? Who +says I have won your daughter’s husband away from her? Some monstrous +calumnies are afloat—of which I have known nothing until now!” + +Melbury started, and looked at her simply. “But surely, ma’am, you know +the truth better than I?” + +Her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on her +handsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsic +film. “Will you leave me to myself?” she said, with a faintness which +suggested a guilty conscience. “This is so utterly unexpected—you +obtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation—” + +“As God’s in heaven, ma’am, that’s not true. I made no pretence; and I +thought in reason you would know why I had come. This gossip—” + +“I have heard nothing of it. Tell me of it, I say.” + +“Tell you, ma’am—not I. What the gossip is, no matter. What really is, +you know. Set facts right, and the scandal will right of itself. But +pardon me—I speak roughly; and I came to speak gently, to coax you, beg +you to be my daughter’s friend. She loved you once, ma’am; you began by +liking her. Then you dropped her without a reason, and it hurt her warm +heart more than I can tell ye. But you were within your right as the +superior, no doubt. But if you would consider her position now—surely, +surely, you would do her no harm!” + +“Certainly I would do her no harm—I—” Melbury’s eye met hers. It was +curious, but the allusion to Grace’s former love for her seemed to +touch her more than all Melbury’s other arguments. “Oh, Melbury,” she +burst out, “you have made me so unhappy! How could you come to me like +this! It is too dreadful! Now go away—go, go!” + +“I will,” he said, in a husky tone. + +As soon as he was out of the room she went to a corner and there sat +and writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingled +with better sentiments. + +Mrs. Charmond’s mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods of +stress and storm. She had never so clearly perceived till now that her +soul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about all +this; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming an +animated impulse only, a passion incarnate. A fascination had led her +on; it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this was +where she found herself—overshadowed with sudden night, as if a tornado +had passed by. + +While she sat, or rather crouched, unhinged by the interview, +lunch-time came, and then the early afternoon, almost without her +consciousness. Then “a strange gentleman who says it is not necessary +to give his name,” was suddenly announced. + +“I cannot see him, whoever he may be. I am not at home to anybody.” + +She heard no more of her visitor; and shortly after, in an attempt to +recover some mental serenity by violent physical exercise, she put on +her hat and cloak and went out-of-doors, taking a path which led her up +the slopes to the nearest spur of the wood. She disliked the woods, but +they had the advantage of being a place in which she could walk +comparatively unobserved. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +There was agitation to-day in the lives of all whom these matters +concerned. It was not till the Hintock dinner-time—one o’clock—that +Grace discovered her father’s absence from the house after a departure +in the morning under somewhat unusual conditions. By a little reasoning +and inquiry she was able to come to a conclusion on his destination, +and to divine his errand. + +Her husband was absent, and her father did not return. He had, in +truth, gone on to Sherton after the interview, but this Grace did not +know. In an indefinite dread that something serious would arise out of +Melbury’s visit by reason of the inequalities of temper and nervous +irritation to which he was subject, something possibly that would bring +her much more misery than accompanied her present negative state of +mind, she left the house about three o’clock, and took a loitering walk +in the woodland track by which she imagined he would come home. This +track under the bare trees and over the cracking sticks, screened and +roofed in from the outer world of wind and cloud by a net-work of +boughs, led her slowly on till in time she had left the larger trees +behind her and swept round into the coppice where Winterborne and his +men were clearing the undergrowth. + +Had Giles’s attention been concentrated on his hurdles he would not +have seen her; but ever since Melbury’s passage across the opposite +glade in the morning he had been as uneasy and unsettled as Grace +herself; and her advent now was the one appearance which, since her +father’s avowal, could arrest him more than Melbury’s return with his +tidings. Fearing that something might be the matter, he hastened up to +her. + +She had not seen her old lover for a long time, and, too conscious of +the late pranks of her heart, she could not behold him calmly. “I am +only looking for my father,” she said, in an unnecessarily apologetic +intonation. + +“I was looking for him too,” said Giles. “I think he may perhaps have +gone on farther.” + +“Then you knew he was going to the House, Giles?” she said, turning her +large tender eyes anxiously upon him. “Did he tell you what for?” + +Winterborne glanced doubtingly at her, and then softly hinted that her +father had visited him the evening before, and that their old +friendship was quite restored, on which she guessed the rest. + +“Oh, I am glad, indeed, that you two are friends again!” she cried. And +then they stood facing each other, fearing each other, troubling each +other’s souls. Grace experienced acute misery at the sight of these +wood-cutting scenes, because she had estranged herself from them, +craving, even to its defects and inconveniences, that homely sylvan +life of her father which in the best probable succession of events +would shortly be denied her. + +At a little distance, on the edge of the clearing, Marty South was +shaping spar-gads to take home for manufacture during the evenings. +While Winterborne and Mrs. Fitzpiers stood looking at her in their +mutual embarrassment at each other’s presence, they beheld approaching +the girl a lady in a dark fur mantle and a black hat, having a white +veil tied picturesquely round it. She spoke to Marty, who turned and +courtesied, and the lady fell into conversation with her. It was Mrs. +Charmond. + +On leaving her house, Mrs. Charmond had walked on and onward under the +fret and fever of her mind with more vigor than she was accustomed to +show in her normal moods—a fever which the solace of a cigarette did +not entirely allay. Reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed Marty +at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near. Chop, chop, chop, +went Marty’s little billhook with never more assiduity, till Mrs. +Charmond spoke. + +“Who is that young lady I see talking to the woodman yonder?” she +asked. + +“Mrs. Fitzpiers, ma’am,” said Marty. + +“Oh,” said Mrs. Charmond, with something like a start; for she had not +recognized Grace at that distance. “And the man she is talking to?” + +“That’s Mr. Winterborne.” + +A redness stole into Marty’s face as she mentioned Giles’s name, which +Mrs. Charmond did not fail to notice informed her of the state of the +girl’s heart. “Are you engaged to him?” she asked, softly. + +“No, ma’am,” said Marty. “_She_ was once; and I think—” + +But Marty could not possibly explain the complications of her thoughts +on this matter—which were nothing less than one of extraordinary +acuteness for a girl so young and inexperienced—namely, that she saw +danger to two hearts naturally honest in Grace being thrown back into +Winterborne’s society by the neglect of her husband. Mrs. Charmond, +however, with the almost supersensory means to knowledge which women +have on such occasions, quite understood what Marty had intended to +convey, and the picture thus exhibited to her of lives drifting away, +involving the wreck of poor Marty’s hopes, prompted her to more +generous resolves than all Melbury’s remonstrances had been able to +stimulate. + +Full of the new feeling, she bade the girl good-afternoon, and went on +over the stumps of hazel to where Grace and Winterborne were standing. +They saw her approach, and Winterborne said, “She is coming to you; it +is a good omen. She dislikes me, so I’ll go away.” He accordingly +retreated to where he had been working before Grace came, and Grace’s +formidable rival approached her, each woman taking the other’s measure +as she came near. + +“Dear—Mrs. Fitzpiers,” said Felice Charmond, with some inward turmoil +which stopped her speech. “I have not seen you for a long time.” + +She held out her hand tentatively, while Grace stood like a wild animal +on first confronting a mirror or other puzzling product of +civilization. Was it really Mrs. Charmond speaking to her thus? If it +was, she could no longer form any guess as to what it signified. + +“I want to talk with you,” said Mrs. Charmond, imploringly, for the +gaze of the young woman had chilled her through. “Can you walk on with +me till we are quite alone?” + +Sick with distaste, Grace nevertheless complied, as by clockwork and +they moved evenly side by side into the deeper recesses of the woods. +They went farther, much farther than Mrs. Charmond had meant to go; but +she could not begin her conversation, and in default of it kept +walking. + +“I have seen your father,” she at length resumed. “And—I am much +troubled by what he told me.” + +“What did he tell you? I have not been admitted to his confidence on +anything he may have said to you.” + +“Nevertheless, why should I repeat to you what you can easily divine?” + +“True—true,” returned Grace, mournfully. “Why should you repeat what we +both know to be in our minds already?” + +“Mrs. Fitzpiers, your husband—” The moment that the speaker’s tongue +touched the dangerous subject a vivid look of self-consciousness +flashed over her, in which her heart revealed, as by a lightning gleam, +what filled it to overflowing. So transitory was the expression that +none but a sensitive woman, and she in Grace’s position, would have had +the power to catch its meaning. Upon her the phase was not lost. + +“Then you _do_ love him!” she exclaimed, in a tone of much surprise. + +“What do you mean, my young friend?” + +“Why,” cried Grace, “I thought till now that you had only been cruelly +flirting with my husband, to amuse your idle moments—a rich lady with a +poor professional gentleman whom in her heart she despised not much +less than her who belongs to him. But I guess from your manner that you +love him desperately, and I don’t hate you as I did before.” + +“Yes, indeed,” continued Mrs. Fitzpiers, with a trembling tongue, +“since it is not playing in your case at all, but _real_. Oh, I do pity +you, more than I despise you, for _you_ will s-s-suffer most!” + +Mrs. Charmond was now as much agitated as Grace. “I ought not to allow +myself to argue with you,” she exclaimed. “I demean myself by doing it. +But I liked you once, and for the sake of that time I try to tell you +how mistaken you are!” Much of her confusion resulted from her wonder +and alarm at finding herself in a sense dominated mentally and +emotionally by this simple school-girl. “I do not love him,” she went +on, with desperate untruth. “It was a kindness—my making somewhat more +of him than one usually does of one’s doctor. I was lonely; I +talked—well, I trifled with him. I am very sorry if such child’s +playing out of pure friendship has been a serious matter to you. Who +could have expected it? But the world is so simple here.” + +“Oh, that’s affectation,” said Grace, shaking her head. “It is no +use—you _love_ him. I can see in your face that in this matter of my +husband you have not let your acts belie your feelings. During these +last four or six months you have been terribly indiscreet; but you have +not been insincere, and that almost disarms me.” + +“I _have_ been insincere—if you will have the word—I mean I _have_ +coquetted, and do _not_ love him!” + +But Grace clung to her position like a limpet. “You may have trifled +with others, but him you love as you never loved another man.” + +“Oh, well—I won’t argue,” said Mrs. Charmond, laughing faintly. “And +you come to reproach me for it, child.” + +“No,” said Grace, magnanimously. “You may go on loving him if you +like—I don’t mind at all. You’ll find it, let me tell you, a bitterer +business for yourself than for me in the end. He’ll get tired of you +soon, as tired as can be—you don’t know him so well as I—and then you +may wish you had never seen him!” + +Mrs. Charmond had grown quite pale and weak under this prophecy. It was +extraordinary that Grace, whom almost every one would have +characterized as a gentle girl, should be of stronger fibre than her +interlocutor. “You exaggerate—cruel, silly young woman,” she +reiterated, writhing with little agonies. “It is nothing but playful +friendship—nothing! It will be proved by my future conduct. I shall at +once refuse to see him more—since it will make no difference to my +heart, and much to my name.” + +“I question if you will refuse to see him again,” said Grace, dryly, as +with eyes askance she bent a sapling down. “But I am not incensed +against you as you are against me,” she added, abandoning the tree to +its natural perpendicular. “Before I came I had been despising you for +wanton cruelty; now I only pity you for misplaced affection. When Edgar +has gone out of the house in hope of seeing you, at seasonable hours +and unseasonable; when I have found him riding miles and miles across +the country at midnight, and risking his life, and getting covered with +mud, to get a glimpse of you, I have called him a foolish man—the +plaything of a finished coquette. I thought that what was getting to be +a tragedy to me was a comedy to you. But now I see that tragedy lies on +YOUR side of the situation no less than on mine, and more; that if I +have felt trouble at my position, you have felt anguish at yours; that +if I have had disappointments, you have had despairs. Heaven may +fortify _me_—God help _you!_” + +“I cannot attempt to reply to your raving eloquence,” returned the +other, struggling to restore a dignity which had completely collapsed. +“My acts will be my proofs. In the world which you have seen nothing +of, friendships between men and women are not unknown, and it would +have been better both for you and your father if you had each judged me +more respectfully, and left me alone. As it is I wish never to see or +speak to you, madam, any more.” + +Grace bowed, and Mrs. Charmond turned away. The two went apart in +directly opposite courses, and were soon hidden from each other by +their umbrageous surroundings and by the shadows of eve. + +In the excitement of their long argument they had walked onward and +zigzagged about without regarding direction or distance. All sound of +the woodcutters had long since faded into remoteness, and even had not +the interval been too great for hearing them they would have been +silent and homeward bound at this twilight hour. But Grace went on her +course without any misgiving, though there was much underwood here, +with only the narrowest passages for walking, across which brambles +hung. She had not, however, traversed this the wildest part of the wood +since her childhood, and the transformation of outlines had been great; +old trees which once were landmarks had been felled or blown down, and +the bushes which then had been small and scrubby were now large and +overhanging. She soon found that her ideas as to direction were +vague—that she had indeed no ideas as to direction at all. If the +evening had not been growing so dark, and the wind had not put on its +night moan so distinctly, Grace would not have minded; but she was +rather frightened now, and began to strike across hither and thither in +random courses. + +Denser grew the darkness, more developed the wind-voices, and still no +recognizable spot or outlet of any kind appeared, nor any sound of the +Hintocks floated near, though she had wandered probably between one and +two hours, and began to be weary. She was vexed at her foolishness, +since the ground she had covered, if in a straight line, must +inevitably have taken her out of the wood to some remote village or +other; but she had wasted her forces in countermarches; and now, in +much alarm, wondered if she would have to pass the night here. She +stood still to meditate, and fancied that between the soughing of the +wind she heard shuffling footsteps on the leaves heavier than those of +rabbits or hares. Though fearing at first to meet anybody on the chance +of his being a friend, she decided that the fellow night-rambler, even +if a poacher, would not injure her, and that he might possibly be some +one sent to search for her. She accordingly shouted a rather timid +“Hoi!” + +The cry was immediately returned by the other person; and Grace running +at once in the direction whence it came beheld an indistinct figure +hastening up to her as rapidly. They were almost in each other’s arms +when she recognized in her vis-a-vis the outline and white veil of her +whom she had parted from an hour and a half before—Mrs. Charmond. + +“I have lost my way, I have lost my way,” cried that lady. “Oh—is it +indeed you? I am so glad to meet you or anybody. I have been wandering +up and down ever since we parted, and am nearly dead with terror and +misery and fatigue!” + +“So am I,” said Grace. “What _shall_ we, _shall_ we do?” + +“You won’t go away from me?” asked her companion, anxiously. + +“No, indeed. Are you very tired?” + +“I can scarcely move, and I am scratched dreadfully about the ankles.” + +Grace reflected. “Perhaps, as it is dry under foot, the best thing for +us to do would be to sit down for half an hour, and then start again +when we have thoroughly rested. By walking straight we must come to a +track leading somewhere before the morning.” + +They found a clump of bushy hollies which afforded a shelter from the +wind, and sat down under it, some tufts of dead fern, crisp and dry, +that remained from the previous season forming a sort of nest for them. +But it was cold, nevertheless, on this March night, particularly for +Grace, who with the sanguine prematureness of youth in matters of +dress, had considered it spring-time, and hence was not so warmly clad +as Mrs. Charmond, who still wore her winter fur. But after sitting a +while the latter lady shivered no less than Grace as the warmth +imparted by her hasty walking began to go off, and they felt the cold +air drawing through the holly leaves which scratched their backs and +shoulders. Moreover, they could hear some drops of rain falling on the +trees, though none reached the nook in which they had ensconced +themselves. + +“If we were to cling close together,” said Mrs. Charmond, “we should +keep each other warm. But,” she added, in an uneven voice, “I suppose +you won’t come near me for the world!” + +“Why not?” + +“Because—well, you know.” + +“Yes. I will—I don’t hate you at all.” + +They consequently crept up to one another, and being in the dark, +lonely and weary, did what neither had dreamed of doing beforehand, +clasped each other closely, Mrs. Charmond’s furs consoling Grace’s cold +face, and each one’s body as she breathed alternately heaving against +that of her companion. + +When a few minutes had been spent thus, Mrs. Charmond said, “I am so +wretched!” in a heavy, emotional whisper. + +“You are frightened,” said Grace, kindly. “But there is nothing to +fear; I know these woods well.” + +“I am not at all frightened at the wood, but I am at other things.” + +Mrs. Charmond embraced Grace more and more tightly, and the younger +woman could feel her neighbor’s breathings grow deeper and more +spasmodic, as though uncontrollable feelings were germinating. + +“After I had left you,” she went on, “I regretted something I had said. +I have to make a confession—I must make it!” she whispered, brokenly, +the instinct to indulge in warmth of sentiment which had led this woman +of passions to respond to Fitzpiers in the first place leading her now +to find luxurious comfort in opening her heart to his wife. “I said to +you I could give him up without pain or deprivation—that he had only +been my pastime. That was untrue—it was said to deceive you. I could +not do it without much pain; and, what is more dreadful, I _cannot_ +give him up—even if I would—of myself alone.” + +“Why? Because you love him, you mean.” + +Felice Charmond denoted assent by a movement. + +“I knew I was right!” said Grace, exaltedly. “But that should not deter +you,” she presently added, in a moral tone. “Oh, do struggle against +it, and you will conquer!” + +“You are so simple, so simple!” cried Felice. “You think, because you +guessed my assumed indifference to him to be a sham, that you know the +extremes that people are capable of going to! But a good deal more may +have been going on than you have fathomed with all your insight. I +_cannot_ give him up until he chooses to give up me.” + +“But surely you are the superior in station and in every way, and the +cut must come from you.” + +“Tchut! Must I tell verbatim, you simple child? Oh, I suppose I must! I +shall eat away my heart if I do not let out all, after meeting you like +this and finding how guileless you are.” She thereupon whispered a few +words in the girl’s ear, and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. + +Grace started roughly away from the shelter of the fur, and sprang to +her feet. + +“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, thunderstruck at a revelation transcending +her utmost suspicion. “Can it be—can it be!” + +She turned as if to hasten away. But Felice Charmond’s sobs came to her +ear: deep darkness circled her about, the funereal trees rocked and +chanted their diriges and placebos around her, and she did not know +which way to go. After a moment of energy she felt mild again, and +turned to the motionless woman at her feet. + +“Are you rested?” she asked, in what seemed something like her own +voice grown ten years older. + +Without an answer Mrs. Charmond slowly rose. + +“You mean to betray me!” she said from the bitterest depths of her +soul. “Oh fool, fool I!” + +“No,” said Grace, shortly. “I mean no such thing. But let us be quick +now. We have a serious undertaking before us. Think of nothing but +going straight on.” + +They walked on in profound silence, pulling back boughs now growing +wet, and treading down woodbine, but still keeping a pretty straight +course. Grace began to be thoroughly worn out, and her companion too, +when, on a sudden, they broke into the deserted highway at the hill-top +on which the Sherton man had waited for Mrs. Dollery’s van. Grace +recognized the spot as soon as she looked around her. + +“How we have got here I cannot tell,” she said, with cold civility. “We +have made a complete circuit of Little Hintock. The hazel copse is +quite on the other side. Now we have only to follow the road.” + +They dragged themselves onward, turned into the lane, passed the track +to Little Hintock, and so reached the park. + +“Here I turn back,” said Grace, in the same passionless voice. “You are +quite near home.” + +Mrs. Charmond stood inert, seeming appalled by her late admission. + +“I have told you something in a moment of irresistible desire to +unburden my soul which all but a fool would have kept silent as the +grave,” she said. “I cannot help it now. Is it to be a secret—or do you +mean war?” + +“A secret, certainly,” said Grace, mournfully. “How can you expect war +from such a helpless, wretched being as I!” + +“And I’ll do my best not to see him. I am his slave; but I’ll try.” + +Grace was naturally kind; but she could not help using a small dagger +now. + +“Pray don’t distress yourself,” she said, with exquisitely fine scorn. +“You may keep him—for me.” Had she been wounded instead of mortified +she could not have used the words; but Fitzpiers’s hold upon her heart +was slight. + +They parted thus and there, and Grace went moodily homeward. Passing +Marty’s cottage she observed through the window that the girl was +writing instead of chopping as usual, and wondered what her +correspondence could be. Directly afterwards she met people in search +of her, and reached the house to find all in serious alarm. She soon +explained that she had lost her way, and her general depression was +attributed to exhaustion on that account. + +Could she have known what Marty was writing she would have been +surprised. + +The rumor which agitated the other folk of Hintock had reached the +young girl, and she was penning a letter to Fitzpiers, to tell him that +Mrs. Charmond wore her hair. It was poor Marty’s only card, and she +played it, knowing nothing of fashion, and thinking her revelation a +fatal one for a lover. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +It was at the beginning of April, a few days after the meeting between +Grace and Mrs. Charmond in the wood, that Fitzpiers, just returned from +London, was travelling from Sherton-Abbas to Hintock in a hired +carriage. In his eye there was a doubtful light, and the lines of his +refined face showed a vague disquietude. He appeared now like one of +those who impress the beholder as having suffered wrong in being born. + +His position was in truth gloomy, and to his appreciative mind it +seemed even gloomier than it was. His practice had been slowly +dwindling of late, and now threatened to die out altogether, the +irrepressible old Dr. Jones capturing patients up to Fitzpiers’s very +door. Fitzpiers knew only too well the latest and greatest cause of his +unpopularity; and yet, so illogical is man, the second branch of his +sadness grew out of a remedial measure proposed for the first—a letter +from Felice Charmond imploring him not to see her again. To bring about +their severance still more effectually, she added, she had decided +during his absence upon almost immediate departure for the Continent. + +The time was that dull interval in a woodlander’s life which coincides +with great activity in the life of the woodland itself—a period +following the close of the winter tree-cutting, and preceding the +barking season, when the saps are just beginning to heave with the +force of hydraulic lifts inside all the trunks of the forest. + +Winterborne’s contract was completed, and the plantations were +deserted. It was dusk; there were no leaves as yet; the nightingales +would not begin to sing for a fortnight; and “the Mother of the Months” +was in her most attenuated phase—starved and bent to a mere bowed +skeleton, which glided along behind the bare twigs in Fitzpiers’s +company. + +When he reached home he went straight up to his wife’s sitting-room. He +found it deserted, and without a fire. He had mentioned no day for his +return; nevertheless, he wondered why she was not there waiting to +receive him. On descending to the other wing of the house and inquiring +of Mrs. Melbury, he learned with much surprise that Grace had gone on a +visit to an acquaintance at Shottsford-Forum three days earlier; that +tidings had on this morning reached her father of her being very unwell +there, in consequence of which he had ridden over to see her. + +Fitzpiers went up-stairs again, and the little drawing-room, now +lighted by a solitary candle, was not rendered more cheerful by the +entrance of Grammer Oliver with an apronful of wood, which she threw on +the hearth while she raked out the grate and rattled about the +fire-irons, with a view to making things comfortable. Fitzpiers +considered that Grace ought to have let him know her plans more +accurately before leaving home in a freak like this. He went +desultorily to the window, the blind of which had not been pulled down, +and looked out at the thin, fast-sinking moon, and at the tall stalk of +smoke rising from the top of Suke Damson’s chimney, signifying that the +young woman had just lit her fire to prepare supper. + +He became conscious of a discussion in progress on the opposite side of +the court. Somebody had looked over the wall to talk to the sawyers, +and was telling them in a loud voice news in which the name of Mrs. +Charmond soon arrested his ears. + +“Grammer, don’t make so much noise with that grate,” said the surgeon; +at which Grammer reared herself upon her knees and held the fuel +suspended in her hand, while Fitzpiers half opened the casement. + +“She is off to foreign lands again at last—hev made up her mind quite +sudden-like—and it is thoughted she’ll leave in a day or two. She’s +been all as if her mind were low for some days past—with a sort of +sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul. She’s the wrong +sort of woman for Hintock—hardly knowing a beech from a woak—that I +own. But I don’t care who the man is, she’s been a very kind friend to +me. + +“Well, the day after to-morrow is the Sabbath day, and without charity +we are but tinkling simples; but this I do say, that her going will be +a blessed thing for a certain married couple who remain.” + +The fire was lighted, and Fitzpiers sat down in front of it, restless +as the last leaf upon a tree. “A sort of sorrow in her face, as if she +reproached her own soul.” Poor Felice. How Felice’s frame must be +pulsing under the conditions of which he had just heard the caricature; +how her fair temples must ache; what a mood of wretchedness she must be +in! But for the mixing up of his name with hers, and her determination +to sunder their too close acquaintance on that account, she would +probably have sent for him professionally. She was now sitting alone, +suffering, perhaps wishing that she had not forbidden him to come +again. + +Unable to remain in this lonely room any longer, or to wait for the +meal which was in course of preparation, he made himself ready for +riding, descended to the yard, stood by the stable-door while Darling +was being saddled, and rode off down the lane. He would have preferred +walking, but was weary with his day’s travel. + +As he approached the door of Marty South’s cottage, which it was +necessary to pass on his way, she came from the porch as if she had +been awaiting him, and met him in the middle of the road, holding up a +letter. Fitzpiers took it without stopping, and asked over his shoulder +from whom it came. + +Marty hesitated. “From me,” she said, shyly, though with noticeable +firmness. + +This letter contained, in fact, Marty’s declaration that she was the +original owner of Mrs. Charmond’s supplementary locks, and enclosed a +sample from the native stock, which had grown considerably by this +time. It was her long contemplated apple of discord, and much her hand +trembled as she handed the document up to him. + +But it was impossible on account of the gloom for Fitzpiers to read it +then, while he had the curiosity to do so, and he put it in his pocket. +His imagination having already centred itself on Hintock House, in his +pocket the letter remained unopened and forgotten, all the while that +Marty was hopefully picturing its excellent weaning effect upon him. + +He was not long in reaching the precincts of the Manor House. He drew +rein under a group of dark oaks commanding a view of the front, and +reflected a while. His entry would not be altogether unnatural in the +circumstances of her possible indisposition; but upon the whole he +thought it best to avoid riding up to the door. By silently approaching +he could retreat unobserved in the event of her not being alone. +Thereupon he dismounted, hitched Darling to a stray bough hanging a +little below the general browsing line of the trees, and proceeded to +the door on foot. + +In the mean time Melbury had returned from Shottsford-Forum. The great +court or quadrangle of the timber-merchant’s house, divided from the +shady lane by an ivy-covered wall, was entered by two white gates, one +standing near each extremity of the wall. It so happened that at the +moment when Fitzpiers was riding out at the lower gate on his way to +the Manor House, Melbury was approaching the upper gate to enter it. +Fitzpiers being in front of Melbury was seen by the latter, but the +surgeon, never turning his head, did not observe his father-in-law, +ambling slowly and silently along under the trees, though his horse too +was a gray one. + +“How is Grace?” said his wife, as soon as he entered. + +Melbury looked gloomy. “She is not at all well,” he said. “I don’t like +the looks of her at all. I couldn’t bear the notion of her biding away +in a strange place any longer, and I begged her to let me get her home. +At last she agreed to it, but not till after much persuading. I was +then sorry that I rode over instead of driving; but I have hired a nice +comfortable carriage—the easiest-going I could get—and she’ll be here +in a couple of hours or less. I rode on ahead to tell you to get her +room ready; but I see her husband has come back.” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Melbury. She expressed her concern that her husband +had hired a carriage all the way from Shottsford. “What it will cost!” +she said. + +“I don’t care what it costs!” he exclaimed, testily. “I was determined +to get her home. Why she went away I can’t think! She acts in a way +that is not at all likely to mend matters as far as I can see.” (Grace +had not told her father of her interview with Mrs. Charmond, and the +disclosure that had been whispered in her startled ear.) “Since Edgar +is come,” he continued, “he might have waited in till I got home, to +ask me how she was, if only for a compliment. I saw him go out; where +is he gone?” + +Mrs. Melbury did not know positively; but she told her husband that +there was not much doubt about the place of his first visit after an +absence. She had, in fact, seen Fitzpiers take the direction of the +Manor House. + +Melbury said no more. It was exasperating to him that just at this +moment, when there was every reason for Fitzpiers to stay indoors, or +at any rate to ride along the Shottsford road to meet his ailing wife, +he should be doing despite to her by going elsewhere. The old man went +out-of-doors again; and his horse being hardly unsaddled as yet, he +told Upjohn to retighten the girths, when he again mounted, and rode +off at the heels of the surgeon. + +By the time that Melbury reached the park, he was prepared to go any +lengths in combating this rank and reckless errantry of his daughter’s +husband. He would fetch home Edgar Fitzpiers to-night by some means, +rough or fair: in his view there could come of his interference nothing +worse than what existed at present. And yet to every bad there is a +worse. + +He had entered by the bridle-gate which admitted to the park on this +side, and cantered over the soft turf almost in the tracks of +Fitzpiers’s horse, till he reached the clump of trees under which his +precursor had halted. The whitish object that was indistinctly visible +here in the gloom of the boughs he found to be Darling, as left by +Fitzpiers. + +“D—n him! why did he not ride up to the house in an honest way?” said +Melbury. + +He profited by Fitzpiers’s example; dismounting, he tied his horse +under an adjoining tree, and went on to the house on foot, as the other +had done. He was no longer disposed to stick at trifles in his +investigation, and did not hesitate to gently open the front door +without ringing. + +The large square hall, with its oak floor, staircase, and wainscot, was +lighted by a dim lamp hanging from a beam. Not a soul was visible. He +went into the corridor and listened at a door which he knew to be that +of the drawing-room; there was no sound, and on turning the handle he +found the room empty. A fire burning low in the grate was the sole +light of the apartment; its beams flashed mockingly on the somewhat +showy Versaillese furniture and gilding here, in style as unlike that +of the structural parts of the building as it was possible to be, and +probably introduced by Felice to counteract the fine old-English gloom +of the place. Disappointed in his hope of confronting his son-in-law +here, he went on to the dining-room; this was without light or fire, +and pervaded by a cold atmosphere, which signified that she had not +dined there that day. + +By this time Melbury’s mood had a little mollified. Everything here was +so pacific, so unaggressive in its repose, that he was no longer +incited to provoke a collision with Fitzpiers or with anybody. The +comparative stateliness of the apartments influenced him to an emotion, +rather than to a belief, that where all was outwardly so good and +proper there could not be quite that delinquency within which he had +suspected. It occurred to him, too, that even if his suspicion were +justified, his abrupt, if not unwarrantable, entry into the house might +end in confounding its inhabitant at the expense of his daughter’s +dignity and his own. Any ill result would be pretty sure to hit Grace +hardest in the long-run. He would, after all, adopt the more rational +course, and plead with Fitzpiers privately, as he had pleaded with Mrs. +Charmond. + +He accordingly retreated as silently as he had come. Passing the door +of the drawing-room anew, he fancied that he heard a noise within which +was not the crackling of the fire. Melbury gently reopened the door to +a distance of a few inches, and saw at the opposite window two figures +in the act of stepping out—a man and a woman—in whom he recognized the +lady of the house and his son-in-law. In a moment they had disappeared +amid the gloom of the lawn. + +He returned into the hall, and let himself out by the carriage-entrance +door, coming round to the lawn front in time to see the two figures +parting at the railing which divided the precincts of the house from +the open park. Mrs. Charmond turned to hasten back immediately that +Fitzpiers had left her side, and he was speedily absorbed into the +duskiness of the trees. + +Melbury waited till Mrs. Charmond had re-entered the drawing-room, and +then followed after Fitzpiers, thinking that he would allow the latter +to mount and ride ahead a little way before overtaking him and giving +him a piece of his mind. His son-in-law might possibly see the second +horse near his own; but that would do him no harm, and might prepare +him for what he was to expect. + +The event, however, was different from the plan. On plunging into the +thick shade of the clump of oaks, he could not perceive his horse +Blossom anywhere; but feeling his way carefully along, he by-and-by +discerned Fitzpiers’s mare Darling still standing as before under the +adjoining tree. For a moment Melbury thought that his own horse, being +young and strong, had broken away from her fastening; but on listening +intently he could hear her ambling comfortably along a little way +ahead, and a creaking of the saddle which showed that she had a rider. +Walking on as far as the small gate in the corner of the park, he met a +laborer, who, in reply to Melbury’s inquiry if he had seen any person +on a gray horse, said that he had only met Dr. Fitzpiers. + +It was just what Melbury had begun to suspect: Fitzpiers had mounted +the mare which did not belong to him in mistake for his own—an +oversight easily explicable, in a man ever unwitting in horse-flesh, by +the darkness of the spot and the near similarity of the animals in +appearance, though Melbury’s was readily enough seen to be the grayer +horse by day. He hastened back, and did what seemed best in the +circumstances—got upon old Darling, and rode rapidly after Fitzpiers. + +Melbury had just entered the wood, and was winding along the cart-way +which led through it, channelled deep in the leaf-mould with large ruts +that were formed by the timber-wagons in fetching the spoil of the +plantations, when all at once he descried in front, at a point where +the road took a turning round a large chestnut-tree, the form of his +own horse Blossom, at which Melbury quickened Darling’s pace, thinking +to come up with Fitzpiers. + +Nearer view revealed that the horse had no rider. At Melbury’s approach +it galloped friskily away under the trees in a homeward direction. +Thinking something was wrong, the timber-merchant dismounted as soon as +he reached the chestnut, and after feeling about for a minute or two +discovered Fitzpiers lying on the ground. + +“Here—help!” cried the latter as soon as he felt Melbury’s touch; “I +have been thrown off, but there’s not much harm done, I think.” + +Since Melbury could not now very well read the younger man the lecture +he had intended, and as friendliness would be hypocrisy, his instinct +was to speak not a single word to his son-in-law. He raised Fitzpiers +into a sitting posture, and found that he was a little stunned and +stupefied, but, as he had said, not otherwise hurt. How this fall had +come about was readily conjecturable: Fitzpiers, imagining there was +only old Darling under him, had been taken unawares by the younger +horse’s sprightliness. + +Melbury was a traveller of the old-fashioned sort; having just come +from Shottsford-Forum, he still had in his pocket the pilgrim’s flask +of rum which he always carried on journeys exceeding a dozen miles, +though he seldom drank much of it. He poured it down the surgeon’s +throat, with such effect that he quickly revived. Melbury got him on +his legs; but the question was what to do with him. He could not walk +more than a few steps, and the other horse had gone away. + +With great exertion Melbury contrived to get him astride Darling, +mounting himself behind, and holding Fitzpiers round his waist with one +arm. Darling being broad, straight-backed, and high in the withers, was +well able to carry double, at any rate as far as Hintock, and at a +gentle pace. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +The mare paced along with firm and cautious tread through the copse +where Winterborne had worked, and into the heavier soil where the oaks +grew; past Great Willy, the largest oak in the wood, and thence towards +Nellcombe Bottom, intensely dark now with overgrowth, and popularly +supposed to be haunted by the spirits of the fratricides exorcised from +Hintock House. + +By this time Fitzpiers was quite recovered as to physical strength. But +he had eaten nothing since making a hasty breakfast in London that +morning, his anxiety about Felice having hurried him away from home +before dining; as a consequence, the old rum administered by his +father-in-law flew to the young man’s head and loosened his tongue, +without his ever having recognized who it was that had lent him a +kindly hand. He began to speak in desultory sentences, Melbury still +supporting him. + +“I’ve come all the way from London to-day,” said Fitzpiers. “Ah, that’s +the place to meet your equals. I live at Hintock—worse, at Little +Hintock—and I am quite lost there. There’s not a man within ten miles +of Hintock who can comprehend me. I tell you, Farmer What’s-your-name, +that I’m a man of education. I know several languages; the poets and I +are familiar friends; I used to read more in metaphysics than anybody +within fifty miles; and since I gave that up there’s nobody can match +me in the whole county of Wessex as a scientist. Yet I an doomed to +live with tradespeople in a miserable little hole like Hintock!” + +“Indeed!” muttered Melbury. + +Fitzpiers, increasingly energized by the alcohol, here reared himself +up suddenly from the bowed posture he had hitherto held, thrusting his +shoulders so violently against Melbury’s breast as to make it difficult +for the old man to keep a hold on the reins. “People don’t appreciate +me here!” the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softly +and slowly, “except one—except one!...A passionate soul, as warm as she +is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she is +beautiful. I say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rather +tight—rather like the eagle’s, you know, that ate out the liver of +Pro—Pre—the man on Mount Caucasus. People don’t appreciate me, I say, +except _her!_ Ah, gods, I am an unlucky man! She would have been mine, +she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so. I +stooped to mate beneath me, and now I rue it.” + +The position was becoming a very trying one for Melbury, corporeally +and mentally. He was obliged to steady Fitzpiers with his left arm, and +he began to hate the contact. He hardly knew what to do. It was useless +to remonstrate with Fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusion from the +rum and from the fall. He remained silent, his hold upon his companion, +however, being stern rather than compassionate. + +“You hurt me a little, farmer—though I am much obliged to you for your +kindness. People don’t appreciate me, I say. Between ourselves, I am +losing my practice here; and why? Because I see matchless attraction +where matchless attraction is, both in person and position. I mention +no names, so nobody will be the wiser. But I have lost her, in a +legitimate sense, that is. If I were a free man now, things have come +to such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune +(which I don’t covet for itself) I should have a chance of satisfying +an honorable ambition—a chance I have never had yet, and now never, +never shall have, probably!” + +Melbury, his heart throbbing against the other’s backbone, and his +brain on fire with indignation, ventured to mutter huskily, “Why?” + +The horse ambled on some steps before Fitzpiers replied, “Because I am +tied and bound to another by law, as tightly as I am to you by your +arm—not that I complain of your arm—I thank you for helping me. Well, +where are we? Not nearly home yet?...Home, say I. It _is_ a home! When +I might have been at the other house over there.” In a stupefied way he +flung his hand in the direction of the park. “I was just two months too +early in committing myself. Had I only seen the other first—” + +Here the old man’s arm gave Fitzpiers a convulsive shake. “What are you +doing?” continued the latter. “Keep still, please, or put me down. I +was saying that I lost her by a mere little two months! There is no +chance for me now in this world, and it makes me reckless—reckless! +Unless, indeed, anything should happen to the other one. She is amiable +enough; but if anything should happen to her—and I hear she is +ill—well, if it _should_, I should be free—and my fame, my happiness, +would be insured.” + +These were the last words that Fitzpiers uttered in his seat in front +of the timber-merchant. Unable longer to master himself, Melbury, the +skin of his face compressed, whipped away his spare arm from +Fitzpiers’s waist, and seized him by the collar. + +“You heartless villain—after all that we have done for ye!” he cried, +with a quivering lip. “And the money of hers that you’ve had, and the +roof we’ve provided to shelter ye! It is to me, George Melbury, that +you dare to talk like that!” The exclamation was accompanied by a +powerful swing from the shoulder, which flung the young man head-long +into the road, Fitzpiers fell with a heavy thud upon the stumps of some +undergrowth which had been cut during the winter preceding. Darling +continued her walk for a few paces farther and stopped. + +“God forgive me!” Melbury murmured, repenting of what he had done. “He +tried me too sorely; and now perhaps I’ve murdered him!” + +He turned round in the saddle and looked towards the spot on which +Fitzpiers had fallen. To his great surprise he beheld the surgeon rise +to his feet with a bound, as if unhurt, and walk away rapidly under the +trees. + +Melbury listened till the rustle of Fitzpiers’s footsteps died away. +“It might have been a crime, but for the mercy of Providence in +providing leaves for his fall,” he said to himself. And then his mind +reverted to the words of Fitzpiers, and his indignation so mounted +within him that he almost wished the fall had put an end to the young +man there and then. + +He had not ridden far when he discerned his own gray mare standing +under some bushes. Leaving Darling for a moment, Melbury went forward +and easily caught the younger animal, now disheartened at its freak. He +then made the pair of them fast to a tree, and turning back, endeavored +to find some trace of Fitzpiers, feeling pitifully that, after all, he +had gone further than he intended with the offender. + +But though he threaded the wood hither and thither, his toes ploughing +layer after layer of the little horny scrolls that had once been +leaves, he could not find him. He stood still listening and looking +round. The breeze was oozing through the network of boughs as through a +strainer; the trunks and larger branches stood against the light of the +sky in the forms of writhing men, gigantic candelabra, pikes, halberds, +lances, and whatever besides the fancy chose to make of them. Giving up +the search, Melbury came back to the horses, and walked slowly +homeward, leading one in each hand. + +It happened that on this self-same evening a boy had been returning +from Great to Little Hintock about the time of Fitzpiers’s and +Melbury’s passage home along that route. A horse-collar that had been +left at the harness-mender’s to be repaired was required for use at +five o’clock next morning, and in consequence the boy had to fetch it +overnight. He put his head through the collar, and accompanied his walk +by whistling the one tune he knew, as an antidote to fear. + +The boy suddenly became aware of a horse trotting rather friskily along +the track behind him, and not knowing whether to expect friend or foe, +prudence suggested that he should cease his whistling and retreat among +the trees till the horse and his rider had gone by; a course to which +he was still more inclined when he found how noiselessly they +approached, and saw that the horse looked pale, and remembered what he +had read about Death in the Revelation. He therefore deposited the +collar by a tree, and hid himself behind it. The horseman came on, and +the youth, whose eyes were as keen as telescopes, to his great relief +recognized the doctor. + +As Melbury surmised, Fitzpiers had in the darkness taken Blossom for +Darling, and he had not discovered his mistake when he came up opposite +the boy, though he was somewhat surprised at the liveliness of his +usually placid mare. The only other pair of eyes on the spot whose +vision was keen as the young carter’s were those of the horse; and, +with that strongly conservative objection to the unusual which animals +show, Blossom, on eying the collar under the tree—quite invisible to +Fitzpiers—exercised none of the patience of the older horse, but shied +sufficiently to unseat so second-rate an equestrian as the surgeon. + +He fell, and did not move, lying as Melbury afterwards found him. The +boy ran away, salving his conscience for the desertion by thinking how +vigorously he would spread the alarm of the accident when he got to +Hintock—which he uncompromisingly did, incrusting the skeleton event +with a load of dramatic horrors. + +Grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by her +husband, at the Crown Hotel, Shottsford-Forum, had been paid for and +dismissed. The long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a +feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind than +body, and she walked about her sitting-room in something of a hopeful +mood. Mrs. Melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that her husband +had returned from London. He had gone out, she said, to see a patient, +as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had no dinner +or tea. Grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicion of his +whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of Mrs. Charmond’s +rumored sorrows and plans of departure. + +So the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. She had left +Hintock in a turmoil of feeling after the revelation of Mrs. Charmond, +and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. But she +had thought the matter over, and had allowed her father’s influence to +prevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that Edgar’s +arrival had preceded hers. + +By-and-by Mrs. Melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry and +abruptness. + +“I have something to tell—some bad news,” she said. “But you must not +be alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. Edgar has been +thrown off his horse. We don’t think he is hurt much. It happened in +the wood the other side of Nellcombe Bottom, where ’tis said the ghosts +of the brothers walk.” + +She went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the invented +horrors that had been communicated by the boy. “I thought it better to +tell you at once,” she added, “in case he should not be very well able +to walk home, and somebody should bring him.” + +Mrs. Melbury really thought matters much worse than she represented, +and Grace knew that she thought so. She sat down dazed for a few +minutes, returning a negative to her step-mother’s inquiry if she could +do anything for her. “But please go into the bedroom,” Grace said, on +second thoughts, “and see if all is ready there—in case it is serious.” +Mrs. Melbury thereupon called Grammer, and they did as directed, +supplying the room with everything they could think of for the +accommodation of an injured man. + +Nobody was left in the lower part of the house. Not many minutes passed +when Grace heard a knock at the door—a single knock, not loud enough to +reach the ears of those in the bedroom. She went to the top of the +stairs and said, faintly, “Come up,” knowing that the door stood, as +usual in such houses, wide open. + +Retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up the +stairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voice +revealed her to be Suke Damson, in great fright and sorrow. A streak of +light from the partially closed door of Grace’s room fell upon her face +as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale. + +“Oh, Miss Melbury—I would say Mrs. Fitzpiers,” she said, wringing her +hands. “This terrible news. Is he dead? Is he hurted very bad? Tell me; +I couldn’t help coming; please forgive me, Miss Melbury—Mrs. Fitzpiers +I would say!” + +Grace sank down on the oak chest which stood on the landing, and put +her hands to her now flushed face and head. Could she order Suke Damson +down-stairs and out of the house? Her husband might be brought in at +any moment, and what would happen? But could she order this genuinely +grieved woman away? + +There was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till Suke said, “Why +don’t ye speak? Is he here? Is he dead? If so, why can’t I see +him—would it be so very wrong?” + +Before Grace had answered somebody else came to the door below—a +foot-fall light as a roe’s. There was a hurried tapping upon the panel, +as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought not +whether a knocker were there or no. Without a pause, and possibly +guided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascended +the staircase as the first had done. Grace was sufficiently visible, +and the lady, for a lady it was, came to her side. + +“I could make nobody hear down-stairs,” said Felice Charmond, with lips +whose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like one +ready to sink on the floor with distress. “What is—the matter—tell me +the worst! Can he live?” She looked at Grace imploringly, without +perceiving poor Suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk away +into the shade. + +Mrs. Charmond’s little feet were covered with mud; she was quite +unconscious of her appearance now. “I have heard such a dreadful +report,” she went on; “I came to ascertain the truth of it. Is +he—killed?” + +“She won’t tell us—he’s dying—he’s in that room!” burst out Suke, +regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of Mrs. +Melbury and Grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage. + +“Where?” said Mrs. Charmond; and on Suke pointing out the direction, +she made as if to go thither. + +Grace barred the way. “He is not there,” she said. “I have not seen him +any more than you. I have heard a report only—not so bad as you think. +It must have been exaggerated to you.” + +“Please do not conceal anything—let me know all!” said Felice, +doubtingly. + +“You shall know all I know—you have a perfect right to know—who can +have a better than either of you?” said Grace, with a delicate sting +which was lost upon Felice Charmond now. “I repeat, I have only heard a +less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how +little, I cannot say. I pray God that it means not much—in common +humanity. You probably pray the same—_for other reasons_.” + +She regarded them both there in the dim light a while. + +They stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heeding +her mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was well, very +well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife’s +regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for +losing their hearts to her husband. But life, what was it, and who was +she? She had, like the singer of the psalm of Asaph, been plagued and +chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in +order to please herself—the individual—“offend against the generation,” +as he would not? + +“He is dying, perhaps,” blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron to her +eyes. + +In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of +heart, all for a man who had wronged them—had never really behaved +towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. Neither one but would have +wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. The tears which his +possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at +the contemplation of these fellow-women. She turned to the balustrade, +bent herself upon it, and wept. + +Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and +letting the tears run down silently. While these three poor women stood +together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied themselves, the +pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the court, and in a +moment Melbury’s voice was heard calling to his stableman. Grace at +once started up, ran down the stairs and out into the quadrangle as her +father crossed it towards the door. “Father, what is the matter with +him?” she cried. + +“Who—Edgar?” said Melbury, abruptly. “Matter? Nothing. What, my dear, +and have you got home safe? Why, you are better already! But you ought +not to be out in the air like this.” + +“But he has been thrown off his horse!” + +“I know; I know. I saw it. He got up again, and walked off as well as +ever. A fall on the leaves didn’t hurt a spry fellow like him. He did +not come this way,” he added, significantly. “I suppose he went to look +for his horse. I tried to find him, but could not. But after seeing him +go away under the trees I found the horse, and have led it home for +safety. So he must walk. Now, don’t you stay out here in this night +air.” + +She returned to the house with her father. When she had again ascended +to the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a great relief to her +to find that both Petticoat the First and Petticoat the Second of her +_Bien-aimé_ had silently disappeared. They had, in all probability, +heard the words of her father, and departed with their anxieties +relieved. + +Presently her parents came up to Grace, and busied themselves to see +that she was comfortable. Perceiving soon that she would prefer to be +left alone they went away. + +Grace waited on. The clock raised its voice now and then, but her +husband did not return. At her father’s usual hour for retiring he +again came in to see her. “Do not stay up,” she said, as soon as he +entered. “I am not at all tired. I will sit up for him.” + +“I think it will be useless, Grace,” said Melbury, slowly. + +“Why?” + +“I have had a bitter quarrel with him; and on that account I hardly +think he will return to-night.” + +“A quarrel? Was that after the fall seen by the boy?” + +Melbury nodded an affirmative, without taking his eyes off the candle. + +“Yes; it was as we were coming home together,” he said. + +Something had been swelling up in Grace while her father was speaking. +“How could you want to quarrel with him?” she cried, suddenly. “Why +could you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? He is +my husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need not +provoke him unnecessarily. First you induce me to accept him, and then +you do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!” + +“How can you speak so unjustly to me, Grace?” said Melbury, with +indignant sorrow. “_I_ divide you from your husband, indeed! You little +think—” + +He was inclined to say more—to tell her the whole story of the +encounter, and that the provocation he had received had lain entirely +in hearing her despised. But it would have greatly distressed her, and +he forbore. “You had better lie down. You are tired,” he said, +soothingly. “Good-night.” + +The household went to bed, and a silence fell upon the dwelling, broken +only by the occasional skirr of a halter in Melbury’s stables. Despite +her father’s advice Grace still waited up. But nobody came. + +It was a critical time in Grace’s emotional life that night. She +thought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgot +Winterborne. + +“How these unhappy women must have admired Edgar!” she said to herself. +“How attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he is +attractive.” The possibility is that, piqued by rivalry, these ideas +might have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a show +of the least reciprocity in Fitzpiers. There was, in truth, a love-bird +yearning to fly from her heart; and it wanted a lodging badly. + +But no husband came. The fact was that Melbury had been much mistaken +about the condition of Fitzpiers. People do not fall headlong on stumps +of underwood with impunity. Had the old man been able to watch +Fitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising and +walking into the thicket he dropped blood as he went; that he had not +proceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and, +raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +Grace was not the only one who watched and meditated in Hintock that +night. Felice Charmond was in no mood to retire to rest at a customary +hour; and over her drawing-room fire at the Manor House she sat as +motionless and in as deep a reverie as Grace in her little apartment at +the homestead. + +Having caught ear of Melbury’s intelligence while she stood on the +landing at his house, and been eased of much of her mental distress, +her sense of personal decorum returned upon her with a rush. She +descended the stairs and left the door like a ghost, keeping close to +the walls of the building till she got round to the gate of the +quadrangle, through which she noiselessly passed almost before Grace +and her father had finished their discourse. Suke Damson had thought it +well to imitate her superior in this respect, and, descending the back +stairs as Felice descended the front, went out at the side door and +home to her cottage. + +Once outside Melbury’s gates Mrs. Charmond ran with all her speed to +the Manor House, without stopping or turning her head, and splitting +her thin boots in her haste. She entered her own dwelling, as she had +emerged from it, by the drawing-room window. In other circumstances she +would have felt some timidity at undertaking such an unpremeditated +excursion alone; but her anxiety for another had cast out her fear for +herself. + +Everything in her drawing-room was just as she had left it—the candles +still burning, the casement closed, and the shutters gently pulled to, +so as to hide the state of the window from the cursory glance of a +servant entering the apartment. She had been gone about three-quarters +of an hour by the clock, and nobody seemed to have discovered her +absence. Tired in body but tense in mind, she sat down, palpitating, +round-eyed, bewildered at what she had done. + +She had been betrayed by affrighted love into a visit which, now that +the emotion instigating it had calmed down under her belief that +Fitzpiers was in no danger, was the saddest surprise to her. This was +how she had set about doing her best to escape her passionate bondage +to him! Somehow, in declaring to Grace and to herself the unseemliness +of her infatuation, she had grown a convert to its irresistibility. If +Heaven would only give her strength; but Heaven never did! One thing +was indispensable; she must go away from Hintock if she meant to +withstand further temptation. The struggle was too wearying, too +hopeless, while she remained. It was but a continual capitulation of +conscience to what she dared not name. + +By degrees, as she sat, Felice’s mind—helped perhaps by the anticlimax +of learning that her lover was unharmed after all her fright about +him—grew wondrously strong in wise resolve. For the moment she was in a +mood, in the words of Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu, “to run mad with +discretion;” and was so persuaded that discretion lay in departure that +she wished to set about going that very minute. Jumping up from her +seat, she began to gather together some small personal knick-knacks +scattered about the room, to feel that preparations were really in +train. + +While moving here and there she fancied that she heard a slight noise +out-of-doors, and stood still. Surely it was a tapping at the window. A +thought entered her mind, and burned her cheek. He had come to that +window before; yet was it possible that he should dare to do so now! +All the servants were in bed, and in the ordinary course of affairs she +would have retired also. Then she remembered that on stepping in by the +casement and closing it, she had not fastened the window-shutter, so +that a streak of light from the interior of the room might have +revealed her vigil to an observer on the lawn. How all things conspired +against her keeping faith with Grace! + +The tapping recommenced, light as from the bill of a little bird; her +illegitimate hope overcame her vow; she went and pulled back the +shutter, determining, however, to shake her head at him and keep the +casement securely closed. + +What she saw outside might have struck terror into a heart stouter than +a helpless woman’s at midnight. In the centre of the lowest pane of the +window, close to the glass, was a human face, which she barely +recognized as the face of Fitzpiers. It was surrounded with the +darkness of the night without, corpse-like in its pallor, and covered +with blood. As disclosed in the square area of the pane it met her +frightened eyes like a replica of the Sudarium of St. Veronica. + +He moved his lips, and looked at her imploringly. Her rapid mind pieced +together in an instant a possible concatenation of events which might +have led to this tragical issue. She unlatched the casement with a +terrified hand, and bending down to where he was crouching, pressed her +face to his with passionate solicitude. She assisted him into the room +without a word, to do which it was almost necessary to lift him bodily. +Quickly closing the window and fastening the shutters, she bent over +him breathlessly. + +“Are you hurt much—much?” she cried, faintly. “Oh, oh, how is this!” + +“Rather much—but don’t be frightened,” he answered in a difficult +whisper, and turning himself to obtain an easier position if possible. +“A little water, please.” + +She ran across into the dining-room, and brought a bottle and glass, +from which he eagerly drank. He could then speak much better, and with +her help got upon the nearest couch. + +“Are you dying, Edgar?” she said. “Do speak to me!” + +“I am half dead,” said Fitzpiers. “But perhaps I shall get over +it....It is chiefly loss of blood.” + +“But I thought your fall did not hurt you,” said she. “Who did this?” + +“Felice—my father-in-law!...I have crawled to you more than a mile on +my hands and knees—God, I thought I should never have got here!...I +have come to you—be-cause you are the only friend—I have in the world +now....I can never go back to Hintock—never—to the roof of the +Melburys! Not poppy nor mandragora will ever medicine this bitter +feud!...If I were only well again—” + +“Let me bind your head, now that you have rested.” + +“Yes—but wait a moment—it has stopped bleeding, fortunately, or I +should be a dead man before now. While in the wood I managed to make a +tourniquet of some half-pence and my handkerchief, as well as I could +in the dark....But listen, dear Felice! Can you hide me till I am well? +Whatever comes, I can be seen in Hintock no more. My practice is nearly +gone, you know—and after this I would not care to recover it if I +could.” + +By this time Felice’s tears began to blind her. Where were now her +discreet plans for sundering their lives forever? To administer to him +in his pain, and trouble, and poverty, was her single thought. The +first step was to hide him, and she asked herself where. A place +occurred to her mind. + +She got him some wine from the dining-room, which strengthened him +much. Then she managed to remove his boots, and, as he could now keep +himself upright by leaning upon her on one side and a walking-stick on +the other, they went thus in slow march out of the room and up the +stairs. At the top she took him along a gallery, pausing whenever he +required rest, and thence up a smaller staircase to the least used part +of the house, where she unlocked a door. Within was a lumber-room, +containing abandoned furniture of all descriptions, built up in piles +which obscured the light of the windows, and formed between them nooks +and lairs in which a person would not be discerned even should an eye +gaze in at the door. The articles were mainly those that had belonged +to the previous owner of the house, and had been bought in by the late +Mr. Charmond at the auction; but changing fashion, and the tastes of a +young wife, had caused them to be relegated to this dungeon. + +Here Fitzpiers sat on the floor against the wall till she had hauled +out materials for a bed, which she spread on the floor in one of the +aforesaid nooks. She obtained water and a basin, and washed the dried +blood from his face and hands; and when he was comfortably reclining, +fetched food from the larder. While he ate her eyes lingered anxiously +on his face, following its every movement with such loving-kindness as +only a fond woman can show. + +He was now in better condition, and discussed his position with her. + +“What I fancy I said to Melbury must have been enough to enrage any +man, if uttered in cold blood, and with knowledge of his presence. But +I did not know him, and I was stupefied by what he had given me, so +that I hardly was aware of what I said. Well—the veil of that temple is +rent in twain!...As I am not going to be seen again in Hintock, my +first efforts must be directed to allay any alarm that may be felt at +my absence, before I am able to get clear away. Nobody must suspect +that I have been hurt, or there will be a country talk about me. +Felice, I must at once concoct a letter to check all search for me. I +think if you can bring me a pen and paper I may be able to do it now. I +could rest better if it were done. Poor thing! how I tire her with +running up and down!” + +She fetched writing materials, and held up the blotting-book as a +support to his hand, while he penned a brief note to his nominal wife. + +“The animosity shown towards me by your father,” he wrote, in this +coldest of marital epistles, “is such that I cannot return again to a +roof which is his, even though it shelters you. A parting is +unavoidable, as you are sure to be on his side in this division. I am +starting on a journey which will take me a long way from Hintock, and +you must not expect to see me there again for some time.” + +He then gave her a few directions bearing upon his professional +engagements and other practical matters, concluding without a hint of +his destination, or a notion of when she would see him again. He +offered to read the note to Felice before he closed it up, but she +would not hear or see it; that side of his obligations distressed her +beyond endurance. She turned away from Fitzpiers, and sobbed bitterly. + +“If you can get this posted at a place some miles away,” he whispered, +exhausted by the effort of writing—“at Shottsford or Port-Bredy, or +still better, Budmouth—it will divert all suspicion from this house as +the place of my refuge.” + +“I will drive to one or other of the places myself—anything to keep it +unknown,” she murmured, her voice weighted with vague foreboding, now +that the excitement of helping him had passed away. + +Fitzpiers told her that there was yet one thing more to be done. “In +creeping over the fence on to the lawn,” he said, “I made the rail +bloody, and it shows rather much on the white paint—I could see it in +the dark. At all hazards it should be washed off. Could you do that +also, Felice?” + +What will not women do on such devoted occasions? weary as she was she +went all the way down the rambling staircases to the ground-floor, then +to search for a lantern, which she lighted and hid under her cloak; +then for a wet sponge, and next went forth into the night. The white +railing stared out in the darkness at her approach, and a ray from the +enshrouded lantern fell upon the blood—just where he had told her it +would be found. She shuddered. It was almost too much to bear in one +day—but with a shaking hand she sponged the rail clean, and returned to +the house. + +The time occupied by these several proceedings was not much less than +two hours. When all was done, and she had smoothed his extemporized +bed, and placed everything within his reach that she could think of, +she took her leave of him, and locked him in. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +When her husband’s letter reached Grace’s hands, bearing upon it the +postmark of a distant town, it never once crossed her mind that +Fitzpiers was within a mile of her still. She felt relieved that he did +not write more bitterly of the quarrel with her father, whatever its +nature might have been; but the general frigidity of his communication +quenched in her the incipient spark that events had kindled so shortly +before. + +From this centre of information it was made known in Hintock that the +doctor had gone away, and as none but the Melbury household was aware +that he did not return on the night of his accident, no excitement +manifested itself in the village. + +Thus the early days of May passed by. None but the nocturnal birds and +animals observed that late one evening, towards the middle of the +month, a closely wrapped figure, with a crutch under one arm and a +stick in his hand, crept out from Hintock House across the lawn to the +shelter of the trees, taking thence a slow and laborious walk to the +nearest point of the turnpike-road. The mysterious personage was so +disguised that his own wife would hardly have known him. Felice +Charmond was a practised hand at make-ups, as well she might be; and +she had done her utmost in padding and painting Fitzpiers with the old +materials of her art in the recesses of the lumber-room. + +In the highway he was met by a covered carriage, which conveyed him to +Sherton-Abbas, whence he proceeded to the nearest port on the south +coast, and immediately crossed the Channel. + +But it was known to everybody that three days after this time Mrs. +Charmond executed her long-deferred plan of setting out for a long term +of travel and residence on the Continent. She went off one morning as +unostentatiously as could be, and took no maid with her, having, she +said, engaged one to meet her at a point farther on in her route. After +that, Hintock House, so frequently deserted, was again to be let. +Spring had not merged in summer when a clinching rumor, founded on the +best of evidence, reached the parish and neighborhood. Mrs. Charmond +and Fitzpiers had been seen together in Baden, in relations which set +at rest the question that had agitated the little community ever since +the winter. + +Melbury had entered the Valley of Humiliation even farther than Grace. +His spirit seemed broken. + +But once a week he mechanically went to market as usual, and here, as +he was passing by the conduit one day, his mental condition expressed +largely by his gait, he heard his name spoken by a voice formerly +familiar. He turned and saw a certain Fred Beaucock—once a promising +lawyer’s clerk and local dandy, who had been called the cleverest +fellow in Sherton, without whose brains the firm of solicitors +employing him would be nowhere. But later on Beaucock had fallen into +the mire. He was invited out a good deal, sang songs at agricultural +meetings and burgesses’ dinners; in sum, victualled himself with +spirits more frequently than was good for the clever brains or body +either. He lost his situation, and after an absence spent in trying his +powers elsewhere, came back to his native town, where, at the time of +the foregoing events in Hintock, he gave legal advice for astonishingly +small fees—mostly carrying on his profession on public-house settles, +in whose recesses he might often have been overheard making +country-people’s wills for half a crown; calling with a learned voice +for pen-and-ink and a halfpenny sheet of paper, on which he drew up the +testament while resting it in a little space wiped with his hand on the +table amid the liquid circles formed by the cups and glasses. An idea +implanted early in life is difficult to uproot, and many elderly +tradespeople still clung to the notion that Fred Beaucock knew a great +deal of law. + +It was he who had called Melbury by name. “You look very down, Mr. +Melbury—very, if I may say as much,” he observed, when the +timber-merchant turned. “But I know—I know. A very sad case—very. I was +bred to the law, as you know, and am professionally no stranger to such +matters. Well, Mrs. Fitzpiers has her remedy.” + +“How—what—a remedy?” said Melbury. + +“Under the new law, sir. A new court was established last year, and +under the new statute, twenty and twenty-one Vic., cap. eighty-five, +unmarrying is as easy as marrying. No more Acts of Parliament +necessary; no longer one law for the rich and another for the poor. But +come inside—I was just going to have a nibleykin of rum hot—I’ll +explain it all to you.” + +The intelligence amazed Melbury, who saw little of newspapers. And +though he was a severely correct man in his habits, and had no taste +for entering a tavern with Fred Beaucock—nay, would have been quite +uninfluenced by such a character on any other matter in the world—such +fascination lay in the idea of delivering his poor girl from bondage, +that it deprived him of the critical faculty. He could not resist the +ex-lawyer’s clerk, and entered the inn. + +Here they sat down to the rum, which Melbury paid for as a matter of +course, Beaucock leaning back in the settle with a legal gravity which +would hardly allow him to be conscious of the spirits before him, +though they nevertheless disappeared with mysterious quickness. + +How much of the exaggerated information on the then new divorce laws +which Beaucock imparted to his listener was the result of ignorance, +and how much of dupery, was never ascertained. But he related such a +plausible story of the ease with which Grace could become a free woman +that her father was irradiated with the project; and though he scarcely +wetted his lips, Melbury never knew how he came out of the inn, or when +or where he mounted his gig to pursue his way homeward. But home he +found himself, his brain having all the way seemed to ring sonorously +as a gong in the intensity of its stir. Before he had seen Grace, he +was accidentally met by Winterborne, who found his face shining as if +he had, like the Law-giver, conversed with an angel. + +He relinquished his horse, and took Winterborne by the arm to a heap of +rendlewood—as barked oak was here called—which lay under a +privet-hedge. + +“Giles,” he said, when they had sat down upon the logs, “there’s a new +law in the land! Grace can be free quite easily. I only knew it by the +merest accident. I might not have found it out for the next ten years. +She can get rid of him—d’ye hear?—get rid of him. Think of that, my +friend Giles!” + +He related what he had learned of the new legal remedy. A subdued +tremulousness about the mouth was all the response that Winterborne +made; and Melbury added, “My boy, you shall have her yet—if you want +her.” His feelings had gathered volume as he said this, and the +articulate sound of the old idea drowned his sight in mist. + +“Are you sure—about this new law?” asked Winterborne, so disquieted by +a gigantic exultation which loomed alternately with fearful doubt that +he evaded the full acceptance of Melbury’s last statement. + +Melbury said that he had no manner of doubt, for since his talk with +Beaucock it had come into his mind that he had seen some time ago in +the weekly paper an allusion to such a legal change; but, having no +interest in those desperate remedies at the moment, he had passed it +over. “But I’m not going to let the matter rest doubtful for a single +day,” he continued. “I am going to London. Beaucock will go with me, +and we shall get the best advice as soon as we possibly can. Beaucock +is a thorough lawyer—nothing the matter with him but a fiery palate. I +knew him as the stay and refuge of Sherton in knots of law at one +time.” + +Winterborne’s replies were of the vaguest. The new possibility was +almost unthinkable by him at the moment. He was what was called at +Hintock “a solid-going fellow;” he maintained his abeyant mood, not +from want of reciprocity, but from a taciturn hesitancy, taught by life +as he knew it. + +“But,” continued the timber-merchant, a temporary crease or two of +anxiety supplementing those already established in his forehead by time +and care, “Grace is not at all well. Nothing constitutional, you know; +but she has been in a low, nervous state ever since that night of +fright. I don’t doubt but that she will be all right soon....I wonder +how she is this evening?” He rose with the words, as if he had too long +forgotten her personality in the excitement of her previsioned career. + +They had sat till the evening was beginning to dye the garden brown, +and now went towards Melbury’s house, Giles a few steps in the rear of +his old friend, who was stimulated by the enthusiasm of the moment to +outstep the ordinary walking of Winterborne. He felt shy of entering +Grace’s presence as her reconstituted lover—which was how her father’s +manner would be sure to present him—before definite information as to +her future state was forthcoming; it seemed too nearly like the act of +those who rush in where angels fear to tread. + +A chill to counterbalance all the glowing promise of the day was prompt +enough in coming. No sooner had he followed the timber-merchant in at +the door than he heard Grammer inform him that Mrs. Fitzpiers was still +more unwell than she had been in the morning. Old Dr. Jones being in +the neighborhood they had called him in, and he had instantly directed +them to get her to bed. They were not, however, to consider her illness +serious—a feverish, nervous attack the result of recent events, was +what she was suffering from, and she would doubtless be well in a few +days. + +Winterborne, therefore, did not remain, and his hope of seeing her that +evening was disappointed. Even this aggravation of her morning +condition did not greatly depress Melbury. He knew, he said, that his +daughter’s constitution was sound enough. It was only these domestic +troubles that were pulling her down. Once free she would be blooming +again. Melbury diagnosed rightly, as parents usually do. + +He set out for London the next morning, Jones having paid another visit +and assured him that he might leave home without uneasiness, especially +on an errand of that sort, which would the sooner put an end to her +suspense. + +The timber-merchant had been away only a day or two when it was told in +Hintock that Mr. Fitzpiers’s hat had been found in the wood. Later on +in the afternoon the hat was brought to Melbury, and, by a piece of +ill-fortune, into Grace’s presence. It had doubtless lain in the wood +ever since his fall from the horse, but it looked so clean and +uninjured—the summer weather and leafy shelter having much favored its +preservation—that Grace could not believe it had remained so long +concealed. A very little of fact was enough to set her fevered fancy at +work at this juncture; she thought him still in the neighborhood; she +feared his sudden appearance; and her nervous malady developed +consequences so grave that Dr. Jones began to look serious, and the +household was alarmed. + +It was the beginning of June, and the cuckoo at this time of the summer +scarcely ceased his cry for more than two or three hours during the +night. The bird’s note, so familiar to her ears from infancy, was now +absolute torture to the poor girl. On the Friday following the +Wednesday of Melbury’s departure, and the day after the discovery of +Fitzpiers’s hat, the cuckoo began at two o’clock in the morning with a +sudden cry from one of Melbury’s apple-trees, not three yards from the +window of Grace’s room. + +“Oh, he is coming!” she cried, and in her terror sprang clean from the +bed out upon the floor. + +These starts and frights continued till noon; and when the doctor had +arrived and had seen her, and had talked with Mrs. Melbury, he sat down +and meditated. That ever-present terror it was indispensable to remove +from her mind at all hazards; and he thought how this might be done. + +Without saying a word to anybody in the house, or to the disquieted +Winterborne waiting in the lane below, Dr. Jones went home and wrote to +Mr. Melbury at the London address he had obtained from his wife. The +gist of his communication was that Mrs. Fitzpiers should be assured as +soon as possible that steps were being taken to sever the bond which +was becoming a torture to her; that she would soon be free, and was +even then virtually so. “If you can say it _at once_ it may be the +means of averting much harm,” he said. “Write to herself; not to me.” + +On Saturday he drove over to Hintock, and assured her with mysterious +pacifications that in a day or two she might expect to receive some +assuring news. So it turned out. When Sunday morning came there was a +letter for Grace from her father. It arrived at seven o’clock, the +usual time at which the toddling postman passed by Hintock; at eight +Grace awoke, having slept an hour or two for a wonder, and Mrs. Melbury +brought up the letter. + +“Can you open it yourself?” said she. + +“Oh yes, yes!” said Grace, with feeble impatience. She tore the +envelope, unfolded the sheet, and read; when a creeping blush tinctured +her white neck and cheek. + +Her father had exercised a bold discretion. He informed her that she +need have no further concern about Fitzpiers’s return; that she would +shortly be a free woman; and therefore, if she should desire to wed her +old lover—which he trusted was the case, since it was his own deep +wish—she would be in a position to do so. In this Melbury had not +written beyond his belief. But he very much stretched the facts in +adding that the legal formalities for dissolving her union were +practically settled. The truth was that on the arrival of the doctor’s +letter poor Melbury had been much agitated, and could with difficulty +be prevented by Beaucock from returning to her bedside. What was the +use of his rushing back to Hintock? Beaucock had asked him. The only +thing that could do her any good was a breaking of the bond. Though he +had not as yet had an interview with the eminent solicitor they were +about to consult, he was on the point of seeing him; and the case was +clear enough. Thus the simple Melbury, urged by his parental alarm at +her danger by the representations of his companion, and by the doctor’s +letter, had yielded, and sat down to tell her roundly that she was +virtually free. + +“And you’d better write also to the gentleman,” suggested Beaucock, +who, scenting notoriety and the germ of a large practice in the case, +wished to commit Melbury to it irretrievably; to effect which he knew +that nothing would be so potent as awakening the passion of Grace for +Winterborne, so that her father might not have the heart to withdraw +from his attempt to make her love legitimate when he discovered that +there were difficulties in the way. + +The nervous, impatient Melbury was much pleased with the idea of +“starting them at once,” as he called it. To put his long-delayed +reparative scheme in train had become a passion with him now. He added +to the letter addressed to his daughter a passage hinting that she +ought to begin to encourage Winterborne, lest she should lose him +altogether; and he wrote to Giles that the path was virtually open for +him at last. Life was short, he declared; there were slips betwixt the +cup and the lip; her interest in him should be reawakened at once, that +all might be ready when the good time came for uniting them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +At these warm words Winterborne was not less dazed than he was moved in +heart. The novelty of the avowal rendered what it carried with it +inapprehensible by him in its entirety. + +Only a few short months ago completely estranged from this +family—beholding Grace going to and fro in the distance, clothed with +the alienating radiance of obvious superiority, the wife of the then +popular and fashionable Fitzpiers, hopelessly outside his social +boundary down to so recent a time that flowers then folded were hardly +faded yet—he was now asked by that jealously guarding father of hers to +take courage—to get himself ready for the day when he should be able to +claim her. + +The old times came back to him in dim procession. How he had been +snubbed; how Melbury had despised his Christmas party; how that sweet, +coy Grace herself had looked down upon him and his household +arrangements, and poor Creedle’s contrivances! + +Well, he could not believe it. Surely the adamantine barrier of +marriage with another could not be pierced like this! It did violence +to custom. Yet a new law might do anything. But was it at all within +the bounds of probability that a woman who, over and above her own +attainments, had been accustomed to those of a cultivated professional +man, could ever be the wife of such as he? + +Since the date of his rejection he had almost grown to see the +reasonableness of that treatment. He had said to himself again and +again that her father was right; that the poor ceorl, Giles +Winterborne, would never have been able to make such a dainty girl +happy. Yet, now that she had stood in a position farther removed from +his own than at first, he was asked to prepare to woo her. He was full +of doubt. + +Nevertheless, it was not in him to show backwardness. To act so +promptly as Melbury desired him to act seemed, indeed, scarcely wise, +because of the uncertainty of events. Giles knew nothing of legal +procedure, but he did know that for him to step up to Grace as a lover +before the bond which bound her was actually dissolved was simply an +extravagant dream of her father’s overstrained mind. He pitied Melbury +for his almost childish enthusiasm, and saw that the aging man must +have suffered acutely to be weakened to this unreasoning desire. + +Winterborne was far too magnanimous to harbor any cynical conjecture +that the timber-merchant, in his intense affection for Grace, was +courting him now because that young lady, when disunited, would be left +in an anomalous position, to escape which a bad husband was better than +none. He felt quite sure that his old friend was simply on tenterhooks +of anxiety to repair the almost irreparable error of dividing two whom +Nature had striven to join together in earlier days, and that in his +ardor to do this he was oblivious of formalities. The cautious +supervision of his past years had overleaped itself at last. Hence, +Winterborne perceived that, in this new beginning, the necessary care +not to compromise Grace by too early advances must be exercised by +himself. + +Perhaps Winterborne was not quite so ardent as heretofore. There is no +such thing as a stationary love: men are either loving more or loving +less. But Giles himself recognized no decline in his sense of her +dearness. If the flame did indeed burn lower now than when he had +fetched her from Sherton at her last return from school, the marvel was +small. He had been laboring ever since his rejection and her marriage +to reduce his former passion to a docile friendship, out of pure regard +to its expediency; and their separation may have helped him to a +partial success. + +A week and more passed, and there was no further news of Melbury. But +the effect of the intelligence he had already transmitted upon the +elastic-nerved daughter of the woods had been much what the old surgeon +Jones had surmised. It had soothed her perturbed spirit better than all +the opiates in the pharmacopoeia. She had slept unbrokenly a whole +night and a day. The “new law” was to her a mysterious, beneficent, +godlike entity, lately descended upon earth, that would make her as she +once had been without trouble or annoyance. Her position fretted her, +its abstract features rousing an aversion which was even greater than +her aversion to the personality of him who had caused it. It was +mortifying, productive of slights, undignified. Him she could forget; +her circumstances she had always with her. + +She saw nothing of Winterborne during the days of her recovery; and +perhaps on that account her fancy wove about him a more romantic tissue +than it could have done if he had stood before her with all the specks +and flaws inseparable from corporeity. He rose upon her memory as the +fruit-god and the wood-god in alternation; sometimes leafy, and smeared +with green lichen, as she had seen him among the sappy boughs of the +plantations; sometimes cider-stained, and with apple-pips in the hair +of his arms, as she had met him on his return from cider-making in +White Hart Vale, with his vats and presses beside him. In her secret +heart she almost approximated to her father’s enthusiasm in wishing to +show Giles once for all how she still regarded him. The question +whether the future would indeed bring them together for life was a +standing wonder with her. She knew that it could not with any propriety +do so just yet. But reverently believing in her father’s sound judgment +and knowledge, as good girls are wont to do, she remembered what he had +written about her giving a hint to Winterborne lest there should be +risk in delay, and her feelings were not averse to such a step, so far +as it could be done without danger at this early stage of the +proceedings. + +From being a frail phantom of her former equable self she returned in +bounds to a condition of passable philosophy. She bloomed again in the +face in the course of a few days, and was well enough to go about as +usual. One day Mrs. Melbury proposed that for a change she should be +driven in the gig to Sherton market, whither Melbury’s man was going on +other errands. Grace had no business whatever in Sherton; but it +crossed her mind that Winterborne would probably be there, and this +made the thought of such a drive interesting. + +On the way she saw nothing of him; but when the horse was walking +slowly through the obstructions of Sheep Street, she discerned the +young man on the pavement. She thought of that time when he had been +standing under his apple-tree on her return from school, and of the +tender opportunity then missed through her fastidiousness. Her heart +rose in her throat. She abjured all such fastidiousness now. Nor did +she forget the last occasion on which she had beheld him in that town, +making cider in the court-yard of the Earl of Wessex Hotel, while she +was figuring as a fine lady in the balcony above. + +Grace directed the man to set her down there in the midst, and +immediately went up to her lover. Giles had not before observed her, +and his eyes now suppressedly looked his pleasure, without the +embarrassment that had formerly marked him at such meetings. + +When a few words had been spoken, she said, archly, “I have nothing to +do. Perhaps you are deeply engaged?” + +“I? Not a bit. My business now at the best of times is small, I am +sorry to say.” + +“Well, then, I am going into the Abbey. Come along with me.” + +The proposition had suggested itself as a quick escape from publicity, +for many eyes were regarding her. She had hoped that sufficient time +had elapsed for the extinction of curiosity; but it was quite +otherwise. The people looked at her with tender interest as the +deserted girl-wife—without obtrusiveness, and without vulgarity; but +she was ill prepared for scrutiny in any shape. + +They walked about the Abbey aisles, and presently sat down. Not a soul +was in the building save themselves. She regarded a stained window, +with her head sideways, and tentatively asked him if he remembered the +last time they were in that town alone. + +He remembered it perfectly, and remarked, “You were a proud miss then, +and as dainty as you were high. Perhaps you are now?” + +Grace slowly shook her head. “Affliction has taken all that out of me,” +she answered, impressively. “Perhaps I am too far the other way now.” +As there was something lurking in this that she could not explain, she +added, so quickly as not to allow him time to think of it, “Has my +father written to you at all?” + +“Yes,” said Winterborne. + +She glanced ponderingly up at him. “Not about me?” + +“Yes.” + +His mouth was lined with charactery which told her that he had been +bidden to take the hint as to the future which she had been bidden to +give. The unexpected discovery sent a scarlet pulsation through Grace +for the moment. However, it was only Giles who stood there, of whom she +had no fear; and her self-possession returned. + +“He said I was to sound you with a view to—what you will understand, if +you care to,” continued Winterborne, in a low voice. Having been put on +this track by herself, he was not disposed to abandon it in a hurry. + +They had been children together, and there was between them that +familiarity as to personal affairs which only such acquaintanceship can +give. “You know, Giles,” she answered, speaking in a very practical +tone, “that that is all very well; but I am in a very anomalous +position at present, and I cannot say anything to the point about such +things as those.” + +“No?” he said, with a stray air as regarded the subject. He was looking +at her with a curious consciousness of discovery. He had not been +imagining that their renewed intercourse would show her to him thus. +For the first time he realized an unexpectedness in her, which, after +all, should not have been unexpected. She before him was not the girl +Grace Melbury whom he used to know. Of course, he might easily have +prefigured as much; but it had never occurred to him. She was a woman +who had been married; she had moved on; and without having lost her +girlish modesty, she had lost her girlish shyness. The inevitable +change, though known to him, had not been heeded; and it struck him +into a momentary fixity. The truth was that he had never come into +close comradeship with her since her engagement to Fitzpiers, with the +brief exception of the evening encounter on Rubdown Hill, when she met +him with his cider apparatus; and that interview had been of too +cursory a kind for insight. + +Winterborne had advanced, too. He could criticise her. Times had been +when to criticise a single trait in Grace Melbury would have lain as +far beyond his powers as to criticise a deity. This thing was sure: it +was a new woman in many ways whom he had come out to see; a creature of +more ideas, more dignity, and, above all, more assurance, than the +original Grace had been capable of. He could not at first decide +whether he were pleased or displeased at this. But upon the whole the +novelty attracted him. + +She was so sweet and sensitive that she feared his silence betokened +something in his brain of the nature of an enemy to her. “What are you +thinking of that makes those lines come in your forehead?” she asked. +“I did not mean to offend you by speaking of the time being premature +as yet.” + +Touched by the genuine loving-kindness which had lain at the foundation +of these words, and much moved, Winterborne turned his face aside, as +he took her by the hand. He was grieved that he had criticised her. + +“You are very good, dear Grace,” he said, in a low voice. “You are +better, much better, than you used to be.” + +“How?” + +He could not very well tell her how, and said, with an evasive smile, +“You are prettier;” which was not what he really had meant. He then +remained still holding her right hand in his own right, so that they +faced in opposite ways; and as he did not let go, she ventured upon a +tender remonstrance. + +“I think we have gone as far as we ought to go at present—and far +enough to satisfy my poor father that we are the same as ever. You see, +Giles, my case is not settled yet, and if—Oh, suppose I _never_ get +free!—there should be any hitch or informality!” + +She drew a catching breath, and turned pale. The dialogue had been +affectionate comedy up to this point. The gloomy atmosphere of the +past, and the still gloomy horizon of the present, had been for the +interval forgotten. Now the whole environment came back, the due +balance of shade among the light was restored. + +“It is sure to be all right, I trust?” she resumed, in uneasy accents. +“What did my father say the solicitor had told him?” + +“Oh—that all is sure enough. The case is so clear—nothing could be +clearer. But the legal part is not yet quite done and finished, as is +natural.” + +“Oh no—of course not,” she said, sunk in meek thought. “But father said +it was _almost_—did he not? Do you know anything about the new law that +makes these things so easy?” + +“Nothing—except the general fact that it enables ill-assorted husbands +and wives to part in a way they could not formerly do without an Act of +Parliament.” + +“Have you to sign a paper, or swear anything? Is it something like +that?” + +“Yes, I believe so.” + +“How long has it been introduced?” + +“About six months or a year, the lawyer said, I think.” + +To hear these two poor Arcadian innocents talk of imperial law would +have made a humane person weep who should have known what a dangerous +structure they were building up on their supposed knowledge. They +remained in thought, like children in the presence of the +incomprehensible. + +“Giles,” she said, at last, “it makes me quite weary when I think how +serious my situation is, or has been. Shall we not go out from here +now, as it may seem rather fast of me—our being so long together, I +mean—if anybody were to see us? I am almost sure,” she added, +uncertainly, “that I ought not to let you hold my hand yet, knowing +that the documents—or whatever it may be—have not been signed; so that +I—am still as married as ever—or almost. My dear father has forgotten +himself. Not that I feel morally bound to any one else, after what has +taken place—no woman of spirit could—now, too, that several months have +passed. But I wish to keep the proprieties as well as I can.” + +“Yes, yes. Still, your father reminds us that life is short. I myself +feel that it is; that is why I wished to understand you in this that we +have begun. At times, dear Grace, since receiving your father’s letter, +I am as uneasy and fearful as a child at what he said. If one of us +were to die before the formal signing and sealing that is to release +you have been done—if we should drop out of the world and never have +made the most of this little, short, but real opportunity, I should +think to myself as I sunk down dying, ‘Would to my God that I had +spoken out my whole heart—given her one poor little kiss when I had the +chance to give it! But I never did, although she had promised to be +mine some day; and now I never can.’ That’s what I should think.” + +She had begun by watching the words from his lips with a mournful +regard, as though their passage were visible; but as he went on she +dropped her glance. “Yes,” she said, “I have thought that, too. And, +because I have thought it, I by no means meant, in speaking of the +proprieties, to be reserved and cold to you who loved me so long ago, +or to hurt your heart as I used to do at that thoughtless time. Oh, not +at all, indeed! But—ought I to allow you?—oh, it is too quick—surely!” +Her eyes filled with tears of bewildered, alarmed emotion. + +Winterborne was too straightforward to influence her further against +her better judgment. “Yes—I suppose it is,” he said, repentantly. “I’ll +wait till all is settled. What did your father say in that last +letter?” + +He meant about his progress with the petition; but she, mistaking him, +frankly spoke of the personal part. “He said—what I have implied. +Should I tell more plainly?” + +“Oh no—don’t, if it is a secret.” + +“Not at all. I will tell every word, straight out, Giles, if you wish. +He said I was to encourage you. There. But I cannot obey him further +to-day. Come, let us go now.” She gently slid her hand from his, and +went in front of him out of the Abbey. + +“I was thinking of getting some dinner,” said Winterborne, changing to +the prosaic, as they walked. “And you, too, must require something. Do +let me take you to a place I know.” + +Grace was almost without a friend in the world outside her father’s +house; her life with Fitzpiers had brought her no society; had +sometimes, indeed, brought her deeper solitude and inconsideration than +any she had ever known before. Hence it was a treat to her to find +herself again the object of thoughtful care. But she questioned if to +go publicly to dine with Giles Winterborne were not a proposal, due +rather to his unsophistication than to his discretion. She said gently +that she would much prefer his ordering her lunch at some place and +then coming to tell her it was ready, while she remained in the Abbey +porch. Giles saw her secret reasoning, thought how hopelessly blind to +propriety he was beside her, and went to do as she wished. + +He was not absent more than ten minutes, and found Grace where he had +left her. “It will be quite ready by the time you get there,” he said, +and told her the name of the inn at which the meal had been ordered, +which was one that she had never heard of. + +“I’ll find it by inquiry,” said Grace, setting out. + +“And shall I see you again?” + +“Oh yes—come to me there. It will not be like going together. I shall +want you to find my father’s man and the gig for me.” + +He waited on some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, till he thought +her lunch ended, and that he might fairly take advantage of her +invitation to start her on her way home. He went straight to The Three +Tuns—a little tavern in a side street, scrupulously clean, but humble +and inexpensive. On his way he had an occasional misgiving as to +whether the place had been elegant enough for her; and as soon as he +entered it, and saw her ensconced there, he perceived that he had +blundered. + +Grace was seated in the only dining-room that the simple old hostelry +could boast of, which was also a general parlor on market-days; a long, +low apartment, with a sanded floor herring-boned with a broom; a wide, +red-curtained window to the street, and another to the garden. Grace +had retreated to the end of the room looking out upon the latter, the +front part being full of a mixed company which had dropped in since he +was there. + +She was in a mood of the greatest depression. On arriving, and seeing +what the tavern was like, she had been taken by surprise; but having +gone too far to retreat, she had heroically entered and sat down on the +well-scrubbed settle, opposite the narrow table with its knives and +steel forks, tin pepper-boxes, blue salt-cellars, and posters +advertising the sale of bullocks against the wall. The last time that +she had taken any meal in a public place it had been with Fitzpiers at +the grand new Earl of Wessex Hotel in that town, after a two months’ +roaming and sojourning at the gigantic hotels of the Continent. How +could she have expected any other kind of accommodation in present +circumstances than such as Giles had provided? And yet how unprepared +she was for this change! The tastes that she had acquired from +Fitzpiers had been imbibed so subtly that she hardly knew she possessed +them till confronted by this contrast. The elegant Fitzpiers, in fact, +at that very moment owed a long bill at the above-mentioned hotel for +the luxurious style in which he used to put her up there whenever they +drove to Sherton. But such is social sentiment, that she had been quite +comfortable under those debt-impending conditions, while she felt +humiliated by her present situation, which Winterborne had paid for +honestly on the nail. + +He had noticed in a moment that she shrunk from her position, and all +his pleasure was gone. It was the same susceptibility over again which +had spoiled his Christmas party long ago. + +But he did not know that this recrudescence was only the casual result +of Grace’s apprenticeship to what she was determined to learn in spite +of it—a consequence of one of those sudden surprises which confront +everybody bent upon turning over a new leaf. She had finished her +lunch, which he saw had been a very mincing performance; and he brought +her out of the house as soon as he could. + +“Now,” he said, with great sad eyes, “you have not finished at all +well, I know. Come round to the Earl of Wessex. I’ll order a tea there. +I did not remember that what was good enough for me was not good enough +for you.” + +Her face faded into an aspect of deep distress when she saw what had +happened. “Oh no, Giles,” she said, with extreme pathos; “certainly +not. Why do you—say that when you know better? You _ever_ will +misunderstand me.” + +“Indeed, that’s not so, Mrs. Fitzpiers. Can you deny that you felt out +of place at The Three Tuns?” + +“I don’t know. Well, since you make me speak, I do not deny it.” + +“And yet I have felt at home there these twenty years. Your husband +used always to take you to the Earl of Wessex, did he not?” + +“Yes,” she reluctantly admitted. How could she explain in the street of +a market-town that it was her superficial and transitory taste which +had been offended, and not her nature or her affection? Fortunately, or +unfortunately, at that moment they saw Melbury’s man driving vacantly +along the street in search of her, the hour having passed at which he +had been told to take her up. Winterborne hailed him, and she was +powerless then to prolong the discourse. She entered the vehicle sadly, +and the horse trotted away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +All night did Winterborne think over that unsatisfactory ending of a +pleasant time, forgetting the pleasant time itself. He feared anew that +they could never be happy together, even should she be free to choose +him. She was accomplished; he was unrefined. It was the original +difficulty, which he was too sensitive to recklessly ignore, as some +men would have done in his place. + +He was one of those silent, unobtrusive beings who want little from +others in the way of favor or condescension, and perhaps on that very +account scrutinize those others’ behavior too closely. He was not +versatile, but one in whom a hope or belief which had once had its +rise, meridian, and decline seldom again exactly recurred, as in the +breasts of more sanguine mortals. He had once worshipped her, laid out +his life to suit her, wooed her, and lost her. Though it was with +almost the same zest, it was with not quite the same hope, that he had +begun to tread the old tracks again, and allowed himself to be so +charmed with her that day. + +Move another step towards her he would not. He would even repulse +her—as a tribute to conscience. It would be sheer sin to let her +prepare a pitfall for her happiness not much smaller than the first by +inveigling her into a union with such as he. Her poor father was now +blind to these subtleties, which he had formerly beheld as in noontide +light. It was his own duty to declare them—for her dear sake. + +Grace, too, had a very uncomfortable night, and her solicitous +embarrassment was not lessened the next morning when another letter +from her father was put into her hands. Its tenor was an intenser +strain of the one that had preceded it. After stating how extremely +glad he was to hear that she was better, and able to get out-of-doors, +he went on: + +“This is a wearisome business, the solicitor we have come to see being +out of town. I do not know when I shall get home. My great anxiety in +this delay is still lest you should lose Giles Winterborne. I cannot +rest at night for thinking that while our business is hanging fire he +may become estranged, or go away from the neighborhood. I have set my +heart upon seeing him your husband, if you ever have another. Do, then, +Grace, give him some temporary encouragement, even though it is +over-early. For when I consider the past I do think God will forgive me +and you for being a little forward. I have another reason for this, my +dear. I feel myself going rapidly downhill, and late affairs have still +further helped me that way. And until this thing is done I cannot rest +in peace.” + + +He added a postscript: + +“I have just heard that the solicitor is to be seen to-morrow. +Possibly, therefore, I shall return in the evening after you get this.” + + +The paternal longing ran on all fours with her own desire; and yet in +forwarding it yesterday she had been on the brink of giving offence. +While craving to be a country girl again just as her father requested; +to put off the old Eve, the fastidious miss—or rather madam—completely, +her first attempt had been beaten by the unexpected vitality of that +fastidiousness. Her father on returning and seeing the trifling +coolness of Giles would be sure to say that the same perversity which +had led her to make difficulties about marrying Fitzpiers was now +prompting her to blow hot and cold with poor Winterborne. + +If the latter had been the most subtle hand at touching the stops of +her delicate soul instead of one who had just bound himself to let her +drift away from him again (if she would) on the wind of her estranging +education, he could not have acted more seductively than he did that +day. He chanced to be superintending some temporary work in a field +opposite her windows. She could not discover what he was doing, but she +read his mood keenly and truly: she could see in his coming and going +an air of determined abandonment of the whole landscape that lay in her +direction. + +Oh, how she longed to make it up with him! Her father coming in the +evening—which meant, she supposed, that all formalities would be in +train, her marriage virtually annulled, and she be free to be won +again—how could she look him in the face if he should see them +estranged thus? + +It was a fair green evening in June. She was seated in the garden, in +the rustic chair which stood under the laurel-bushes—made of peeled +oak-branches that came to Melbury’s premises as refuse after +barking-time. The mass of full-juiced leafage on the heights around her +was just swayed into faint gestures by a nearly spent wind which, even +in its enfeebled state, did not reach her shelter. All day she had +expected Giles to call—to inquire how she had got home, or something or +other; but he had not come. And he still tantalized her by going +athwart and across that orchard opposite. She could see him as she sat. + +A slight diversion was presently created by Creedle bringing him a +letter. She knew from this that Creedle had just come from Sherton, and +had called as usual at the post-office for anything that had arrived by +the afternoon post, of which there was no delivery at Hintock. She +pondered on what the letter might contain—particularly whether it were +a second refresher for Winterborne from her father, like her own of the +morning. + +But it appeared to have no bearing upon herself whatever. Giles read +its contents; and almost immediately turned away to a gap in the hedge +of the orchard—if that could be called a hedge which, owing to the +drippings of the trees, was little more than a bank with a bush upon it +here and there. He entered the plantation, and was no doubt going that +way homeward to the mysterious hut he occupied on the other side of the +woodland. + +The sad sands were running swiftly through Time’s glass; she had often +felt it in these latter days; and, like Giles, she felt it doubly now +after the solemn and pathetic reminder in her father’s communication. +Her freshness would pass, the long-suffering devotion of Giles might +suddenly end—might end that very hour. Men were so strange. The thought +took away from her all her former reticence, and made her action bold. +She started from her seat. If the little breach, quarrel, or whatever +it might be called, of yesterday, was to be healed up it must be done +by her on the instant. She crossed into the orchard, and clambered +through the gap after Giles, just as he was diminishing to a faun-like +figure under the green canopy and over the brown floor. + +Grace had been wrong—very far wrong—in assuming that the letter had no +reference to herself because Giles had turned away into the wood after +its perusal. It was, sad to say, because the missive had so much +reference to herself that he had thus turned away. He feared that his +grieved discomfiture might be observed. The letter was from Beaucock, +written a few hours later than Melbury’s to his daughter. It announced +failure. + +Giles had once done that thriftless man a good turn, and now was the +moment when Beaucock had chosen to remember it in his own way. During +his absence in town with Melbury, the lawyer’s clerk had naturally +heard a great deal of the timber-merchant’s family scheme of justice to +Giles, and his communication was to inform Winterborne at the earliest +possible moment that their attempt had failed, in order that the young +man should not place himself in a false position towards Grace in the +belief of its coming success. The news was, in sum, that Fitzpiers’s +conduct had not been sufficiently cruel to Grace to enable her to snap +the bond. She was apparently doomed to be his wife till the end of the +chapter. + +Winterborne quite forgot his superficial differences with the poor girl +under the warm rush of deep and distracting love for her which the +almost tragical information engendered. + +To renounce her forever—that was then the end of it for him, after all. +There was no longer any question about suitability, or room for tiffs +on petty tastes. The curtain had fallen again between them. She could +not be his. The cruelty of their late revived hope was now terrible. +How could they all have been so simple as to suppose this thing could +be done? + +It was at this moment that, hearing some one coming behind him, he +turned and saw her hastening on between the thickets. He perceived in +an instant that she did not know the blighting news. + +“Giles, why didn’t you come across to me?” she asked, with arch +reproach. “Didn’t you see me sitting there ever so long?” + +“Oh yes,” he said, in unprepared, extemporized tones, for her +unexpected presence caught him without the slightest plan of behavior +in the conjuncture. His manner made her think that she had been too +chiding in her speech; and a mild scarlet wave passed over her as she +resolved to soften it. + +“I have had another letter from my father,” she hastened to continue. +“He thinks he may come home this evening. And—in view of his hopes—it +will grieve him if there is any little difference between us, Giles.” + +“There is none,” he said, sadly regarding her from the face downward as +he pondered how to lay the cruel truth bare. + +“Still—I fear you have not quite forgiven me about my being +uncomfortable at the inn.” + +“I have, Grace, I’m sure.” + +“But you speak in quite an unhappy way,” she returned, coming up close +to him with the most winning of the many pretty airs that appertained +to her. “Don’t you think you will ever be happy, Giles?” + +He did not reply for some instants. “When the sun shines on the north +front of Sherton Abbey—that’s when my happiness will come to me!” said +he, staring as it were into the earth. + +“But—then that means that there is something more than my offending you +in not liking The Three Tuns. If it is because I—did not like to let +you kiss me in the Abbey—well, you know, Giles, that it was not on +account of my cold feelings, but because I did certainly, just then, +think it was rather premature, in spite of my poor father. That was the +true reason—the sole one. But I do not want to be hard—God knows I do +not,” she said, her voice fluctuating. “And perhaps—as I am on the +verge of freedom—I am not right, after all, in thinking there is any +harm in your kissing me.” + +“Oh God!” said Winterborne within himself. His head was turned askance +as he still resolutely regarded the ground. For the last several +minutes he had seen this great temptation approaching him in regular +siege; and now it had come. The wrong, the social sin, of now taking +advantage of the offer of her lips had a magnitude, in the eyes of one +whose life had been so primitive, so ruled by purest household laws, as +Giles’s, which can hardly be explained. + +“Did you say anything?” she asked, timidly. + +“Oh no—only that—” + +“You mean that it must _be already_ settled, since my father is coming +home?” she said, gladly. + +Winterborne, though fighting valiantly against himself all this +while—though he would have protected Grace’s good repute as the apple +of his eye—was a man; and, as Desdemona said, men are not gods. In face +of the agonizing seductiveness shown by her, in her unenlightened +school-girl simplicity about the laws and ordinances, he betrayed a +man’s weakness. Since it was so—since it had come to this, that Grace, +deeming herself free to do it, was virtually asking him to demonstrate +that he loved her—since he could demonstrate it only too truly—since +life was short and love was strong—he gave way to the temptation, +notwithstanding that he perfectly well knew her to be wedded +irrevocably to Fitzpiers. Indeed, he cared for nothing past or future, +simply accepting the present and what it brought, desiring once in his +life to clasp in his arms her he had watched over and loved so long. + +She started back suddenly from his embrace, influenced by a sort of +inspiration. “Oh, I suppose,” she stammered, “that I am really +free?—that this is right? Is there _really_ a new law? Father cannot +have been too sanguine in saying—” + +He did not answer, and a moment afterwards Grace burst into tears in +spite of herself. “Oh, why does not my father come home and explain,” +she sobbed, “and let me know clearly what I am? It is too trying, this, +to ask me to—and then to leave me so long in so vague a state that I do +not know what to do, and perhaps do wrong!” + +Winterborne felt like a very Cain, over and above his previous sorrow. +How he had sinned against her in not telling her what he knew. He +turned aside; the feeling of his cruelty mounted higher and higher. How +could he have dreamed of kissing her? He could hardly refrain from +tears. Surely nothing more pitiable had ever been known than the +condition of this poor young thing, now as heretofore the victim of her +father’s well-meant but blundering policy. + +Even in the hour of Melbury’s greatest assurance Winterborne had +harbored a suspicion that no law, new or old, could undo Grace’s +marriage without her appearance in public; though he was not +sufficiently sure of what might have been enacted to destroy by his own +words her pleasing idea that a mere dash of the pen, on her father’s +testimony, was going to be sufficient. But he had never suspected the +sad fact that the position was irremediable. + +Poor Grace, perhaps feeling that she had indulged in too much fluster +for a mere kiss, calmed herself at finding how grave he was. + +“I am glad we are friends again anyhow,” she said, smiling through her +tears. “Giles, if you had only shown half the boldness before I married +that you show now, you would have carried me off for your own first +instead of second. If we do marry, I hope you will never think badly of +me for encouraging you a little, but my father is _so_ impatient, you +know, as his years and infirmities increase, that he will wish to see +us a little advanced when he comes. That is my only excuse.” + +To Winterborne all this was sadder than it was sweet. How could she so +trust her father’s conjectures? He did not know how to tell her the +truth and shame himself. And yet he felt that it must be done. “We may +have been wrong,” he began, almost fearfully, “in supposing that it can +all be carried out while we stay here at Hintock. I am not sure but +that people may have to appear in a public court even under the new +Act; and if there should be any difficulty, and we cannot marry after +all—” + +Her cheeks became slowly bloodless. “Oh, Giles,” she said, grasping his +arm, “you have heard something! What—cannot my father conclude it there +and now? Surely he has done it? Oh, Giles, Giles, don’t deceive me. +What terrible position am I in?” + +He could not tell her, try as he would. The sense of her implicit trust +in his honor absolutely disabled him. “I cannot inform you,” he +murmured, his voice as husky as that of the leaves underfoot. “Your +father will soon be here. Then we shall know. I will take you home.” + +Inexpressibly dear as she was to him, he offered her his arm with the +most reserved air, as he added, correctingly, “I will take you, at any +rate, into the drive.” + +Thus they walked on together. Grace vibrating between happiness and +misgiving. It was only a few minutes’ walk to where the drive ran, and +they had hardly descended into it when they heard a voice behind them +cry, “Take out that arm!” + +For a moment they did not heed, and the voice repeated, more loudly and +hoarsely, + +“Take out that arm!” + +It was Melbury’s. He had returned sooner than they expected, and now +came up to them. Grace’s hand had been withdrawn like lightning on her +hearing the second command. “I don’t blame you—I don’t blame you,” he +said, in the weary cadence of one broken down with scourgings. “But you +two must walk together no more—I have been surprised—I have been +cruelly deceived—Giles, don’t say anything to me; but go away!” + +He was evidently not aware that Winterborne had known the truth before +he brought it; and Giles would not stay to discuss it with him then. +When the young man had gone Melbury took his daughter in-doors to the +room he used as his office. There he sat down, and bent over the slope +of the bureau, her bewildered gaze fixed upon him. + +When Melbury had recovered a little he said, “You are now, as ever, +Fitzpiers’s wife. I was deluded. He has not done you _enough_ harm. You +are still subject to his beck and call.” + +“Then let it be, and never mind, father,” she said, with dignified +sorrow. “I can bear it. It is your trouble that grieves me most.” She +stooped over him, and put her arm round his neck, which distressed +Melbury still more. “I don’t mind at all what comes to me,” Grace +continued; “whose wife I am, or whose I am not. I do love Giles; I +cannot help that; and I have gone further with him than I should have +done if I had known exactly how things were. But I do not reproach +you.” + +“Then Giles did not tell you?” said Melbury. + +“No,” said she. “He could not have known it. His behavior to me proved +that he did not know.” + +Her father said nothing more, and Grace went away to the solitude of +her chamber. + +Her heavy disquietude had many shapes; and for a time she put aside the +dominant fact to think of her too free conduct towards Giles. His +love-making had been brief as it was sweet; but would he on reflection +contemn her for forwardness? How could she have been so simple as to +suppose she was in a position to behave as she had done! Thus she +mentally blamed her ignorance; and yet in the centre of her heart she +blessed it a little for what it had momentarily brought her. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +Life among the people involved in these events seemed to be suppressed +and hide-bound for a while. Grace seldom showed herself outside the +house, never outside the garden; for she feared she might encounter +Giles Winterborne; and that she could not bear. + +This pensive intramural existence of the self-constituted nun appeared +likely to continue for an indefinite time. She had learned that there +was one possibility in which her formerly imagined position might +become real, and only one; that her husband’s absence should continue +long enough to amount to positive desertion. But she never allowed her +mind to dwell much upon the thought; still less did she deliberately +hope for such a result. Her regard for Winterborne had been rarefied by +the shock which followed its avowal into an ethereal emotion that had +little to do with living and doing. + +As for Giles, he was lying—or rather sitting—ill at his hut. A feverish +indisposition which had been hanging about him for some time, the +result of a chill caught the previous winter, seemed to acquire +virulence with the prostration of his hopes. But not a soul knew of his +languor, and he did not think the case serious enough to send for a +medical man. After a few days he was better again, and crept about his +home in a great coat, attending to his simple wants as usual with his +own hands. So matters stood when the limpid inertion of Grace’s +pool-like existence was disturbed as by a geyser. She received a letter +from Fitzpiers. + +Such a terrible letter it was in its import, though couched in the +gentlest language. In his absence Grace had grown to regard him with +toleration, and her relation to him with equanimity, till she had +almost forgotten how trying his presence would be. He wrote briefly and +unaffectedly; he made no excuses, but informed her that he was living +quite alone, and had been led to think that they ought to be together, +if she would make up her mind to forgive him. He therefore purported to +cross the Channel to Budmouth by the steamer on a day he named, which +she found to be three days after the time of her present reading. + +He said that he could not come to Hintock for obvious reasons, which +her father would understand even better than herself. As the only +alternative she was to be on the quay to meet the steamer when it +arrived from the opposite coast, probably about half an hour before +midnight, bringing with her any luggage she might require; join him +there, and pass with him into the twin vessel, which left immediately +the other entered the harbor; returning thus with him to his +continental dwelling-place, which he did not name. He had no intention +of showing himself on land at all. + +The troubled Grace took the letter to her father, who now continued for +long hours by the fireless summer chimney-corner, as if he thought it +were winter, the pitcher of cider standing beside him, mostly untasted, +and coated with a film of dust. After reading it he looked up. + +“You sha’n’t go,” said he. + +“I had felt I would not,” she answered. “But I did not know what you +would say.” + +“If he comes and lives in England, not too near here and in a +respectable way, and wants you to come to him, I am not sure that I’ll +oppose him in wishing it,” muttered Melbury. “I’d stint myself to keep +you both in a genteel and seemly style. But go abroad you never shall +with my consent.” + +There the question rested that day. Grace was unable to reply to her +husband in the absence of an address, and the morrow came, and the next +day, and the evening on which he had requested her to meet him. +Throughout the whole of it she remained within the four walls of her +room. + +The sense of her harassment, carking doubt of what might be impending, +hung like a cowl of blackness over the Melbury household. They spoke +almost in whispers, and wondered what Fitzpiers would do next. It was +the hope of every one that, finding she did not arrive, he would return +again to France; and as for Grace, she was willing to write to him on +the most kindly terms if he would only keep away. + +The night passed, Grace lying tense and wide awake, and her relatives, +in great part, likewise. When they met the next morning they were pale +and anxious, though neither speaking of the subject which occupied all +their thoughts. The day passed as quietly as the previous ones, and she +began to think that in the rank caprice of his moods he had abandoned +the idea of getting her to join him as quickly as it was formed. All on +a sudden, some person who had just come from Sherton entered the house +with the news that Mr. Fitzpiers was on his way home to Hintock. He had +been seen hiring a carriage at the Earl of Wessex Hotel. + +Her father and Grace were both present when the intelligence was +announced. + +“Now,” said Melbury, “we must make the best of what has been a very bad +matter. The man is repenting; the partner of his shame, I hear, is gone +away from him to Switzerland, so that chapter of his life is probably +over. If he chooses to make a home for ye I think you should not say +him nay, Grace. Certainly he cannot very well live at Hintock without a +blow to his pride; but if he can bear that, and likes Hintock best, +why, there’s the empty wing of the house as it was before.” + +“Oh, father!” said Grace, turning white with dismay. + +“Why not?” said he, a little of his former doggedness returning. He +was, in truth, disposed to somewhat more leniency towards her husband +just now than he had shown formerly, from a conviction that he had +treated him over-roughly in his anger. “Surely it is the most +respectable thing to do?” he continued. “I don’t like this state that +you are in—neither married nor single. It hurts me, and it hurts you, +and it will always be remembered against us in Hintock. There has never +been any scandal like it in the family before.” + +“He will be here in less than an hour,” murmured Grace. The twilight of +the room prevented her father seeing the despondent misery of her face. +The one intolerable condition, the condition she had deprecated above +all others, was that of Fitzpiers’s reinstatement there. “Oh, I won’t, +I won’t see him,” she said, sinking down. She was almost hysterical. + +“Try if you cannot,” he returned, moodily. + +“Oh yes, I will, I will,” she went on, inconsequently. “I’ll try;” and +jumping up suddenly, she left the room. + +In the darkness of the apartment to which she flew nothing could have +been seen during the next half-hour; but from a corner a quick +breathing was audible from this impressible creature, who combined +modern nerves with primitive emotions, and was doomed by such +coexistence to be numbered among the distressed, and to take her +scourgings to their exquisite extremity. + +The window was open. On this quiet, late summer evening, whatever sound +arose in so secluded a district—the chirp of a bird, a call from a +voice, the turning of a wheel—extended over bush and tree to unwonted +distances. Very few sounds did arise. But as Grace invisibly breathed +in the brown glooms of the chamber, the small remote noise of light +wheels came in to her, accompanied by the trot of a horse on the +turnpike-road. There seemed to be a sudden hitch or pause in the +progress of the vehicle, which was what first drew her attention to it. +She knew the point whence the sound proceeded—the hill-top over which +travellers passed on their way hitherward from Sherton Abbas—the place +at which she had emerged from the wood with Mrs. Charmond. Grace slid +along the floor, and bent her head over the window-sill, listening with +open lips. The carriage had stopped, and she heard a man use +exclamatory words. Then another said, “What the devil is the matter +with the horse?” She recognized the voice as her husband’s. + +The accident, such as it had been, was soon remedied, and the carriage +could be heard descending the hill on the Hintock side, soon to turn +into the lane leading out of the highway, and then into the “drong” +which led out of the lane to the house where she was. + +A spasm passed through Grace. The Daphnean instinct, exceptionally +strong in her as a girl, had been revived by her widowed seclusion; and +it was not lessened by her affronted sentiments towards the comer, and +her regard for another man. She opened some little ivory tablets that +lay on the dressing-table, scribbled in pencil on one of them, “I am +gone to visit one of my school-friends,” gathered a few toilet +necessaries into a hand-bag, and not three minutes after that voice had +been heard, her slim form, hastily wrapped up from observation, might +have been seen passing out of the back door of Melbury’s house. Thence +she skimmed up the garden-path, through the gap in the hedge, and into +the mossy cart-track under the trees which led into the depth of the +woods. + +The leaves overhead were now in their latter green—so opaque, that it +was darker at some of the densest spots than in winter-time, scarce a +crevice existing by which a ray could get down to the ground. But in +open places she could see well enough. Summer was ending: in the +daytime singing insects hung in every sunbeam; vegetation was heavy +nightly with globes of dew; and after showers creeping damps and +twilight chills came up from the hollows. The plantations were always +weird at this hour of eve—more spectral far than in the leafless +season, when there were fewer masses and more minute lineality. The +smooth surfaces of glossy plants came out like weak, lidless eyes; +there were strange faces and figures from expiring lights that had +somehow wandered into the canopied obscurity; while now and then low +peeps of the sky between the trunks were like sheeted shapes, and on +the tips of boughs sat faint cloven tongues. + +But Grace’s fear just now was not imaginative or spiritual, and she +heeded these impressions but little. She went on as silently as she +could, avoiding the hollows wherein leaves had accumulated, and +stepping upon soundless moss and grass-tufts. She paused breathlessly +once or twice, and fancied that she could hear, above the beat of her +strumming pulse, the vehicle containing Fitzpiers turning in at the +gate of her father’s premises. She hastened on again. + +The Hintock woods owned by Mrs. Charmond were presently left behind, +and those into which she next plunged were divided from the latter by a +bank, from whose top the hedge had long ago perished—starved for want +of sun. It was with some caution that Grace now walked, though she was +quite free from any of the commonplace timidities of her ordinary +pilgrimages to such spots. She feared no lurking harms, but that her +effort would be all in vain, and her return to the house rendered +imperative. + +She had walked between three and four miles when that prescriptive +comfort and relief to wanderers in woods—a distant light—broke at last +upon her searching eyes. It was so very small as to be almost sinister +to a stranger, but to her it was what she sought. She pushed forward, +and the dim outline of a dwelling was disclosed. + +The house was a square cot of one story only, sloping up on all sides +to a chimney in the midst. It had formerly been the home of a +charcoal-burner, in times when that fuel was still used in the county +houses. Its only appurtenance was a paled enclosure, there being no +garden, the shade of the trees preventing the growth of vegetables. She +advanced to the window whence the rays of light proceeded, and the +shutters being as yet unclosed, she could survey the whole interior +through the panes. + +The room within was kitchen, parlor, and scullery all in one; the +natural sandstone floor was worn into hills and dales by long treading, +so that none of the furniture stood level, and the table slanted like a +desk. A fire burned on the hearth, in front of which revolved the +skinned carcass of a rabbit, suspended by a string from a nail. Leaning +with one arm on the mantle-shelf stood Winterborne, his eyes on the +roasting animal, his face so rapt that speculation could build nothing +on it concerning his thoughts, more than that they were not with the +scene before him. She thought his features had changed a little since +she saw them last. The fire-light did not enable her to perceive that +they were positively haggard. + +Grace’s throat emitted a gasp of relief at finding the result so nearly +as she had hoped. She went to the door and tapped lightly. + +He seemed to be accustomed to the noises of woodpeckers, squirrels, and +such small creatures, for he took no notice of her tiny signal, and she +knocked again. This time he came and opened the door. When the light of +the room fell upon her face he started, and, hardly knowing what he +did, crossed the threshold to her, placing his hands upon her two arms, +while surprise, joy, alarm, sadness, chased through him by turns. With +Grace it was the same: even in this stress there was the fond fact that +they had met again. Thus they stood, + +“Long tears upon their faces, waxen white +With extreme sad delight.” + + +He broke the silence by saying in a whisper, “Come in.” + +“No, no, Giles!” she answered, hurriedly, stepping yet farther back +from the door. “I am passing by—and I have called on you—I won’t enter. +Will you help me? I am afraid. I want to get by a roundabout way to +Sherton, and so to Exbury. I have a school-fellow there—but I cannot +get to Sherton alone. Oh, if you will only accompany me a little way! +Don’t condemn me, Giles, and be offended! I was obliged to come to you +because—I have no other help here. Three months ago you were my lover; +now you are only my friend. The law has stepped in, and forbidden what +we thought of. It must not be. But we can act honestly, and yet you can +be my friend for one little hour? I have no other—” + +She could get no further. Covering her eyes with one hand, by an effort +of repression she wept a silent trickle, without a sigh or sob. +Winterborne took her other hand. “What has happened?” he said. + +“He has come.” + +There was a stillness as of death, till Winterborne asked, “You mean +this, Grace—that I am to help you to get away?” + +“Yes,” said she. “Appearance is no matter, when the reality is right. I +have said to myself I can trust you.” + +Giles knew from this that she did not suspect his treachery—if it could +be called such—earlier in the summer, when they met for the last time +as lovers; and in the intensity of his contrition for that tender +wrong, he determined to deserve her faith now at least, and so wipe out +that reproach from his conscience. “I’ll come at once,” he said. “I’ll +light a lantern.” + +He unhooked a dark-lantern from a nail under the eaves and she did not +notice how his hand shook with the slight strain, or dream that in +making this offer he was taxing a convalescence which could ill afford +such self-sacrifice. The lantern was lit, and they started. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +The first hundred yards of their course lay under motionless trees, +whose upper foliage began to hiss with falling drops of rain. By the +time that they emerged upon a glade it rained heavily. + +“This is awkward,” said Grace, with an effort to hide her concern. + +Winterborne stopped. “Grace,” he said, preserving a strictly business +manner which belied him, “you cannot go to Sherton to-night.” + +“But I must!” + +“Why? It is nine miles from here. It is almost an impossibility in this +rain.” + +“True—_why?_” she replied, mournfully, at the end of a silence. “What +is reputation to me?” + +“Now hearken,” said Giles. “You won’t—go back to your—” + +“No, no, no! Don’t make me!” she cried, piteously. + +“Then let us turn.” They slowly retraced their steps, and again stood +before his door. “Now, this house from this moment is yours, and not +mine,” he said, deliberately. “I have a place near by where I can stay +very well.” + +Her face had drooped. “Oh!” she murmured, as she saw the dilemma. “What +have I done!” + +There was a smell of something burning within, and he looked through +the window. The rabbit that he had been cooking to coax a weak appetite +was beginning to char. “Please go in and attend to it,” he said. “Do +what you like. Now I leave. You will find everything about the hut that +is necessary.” + +“But, Giles—your supper,” she exclaimed. “An out-house would do for +me—anything—till to-morrow at day-break!” + +He signified a negative. “I tell you to go in—you may catch agues out +here in your delicate state. You can give me my supper through the +window, if you feel well enough. I’ll wait a while.” + +He gently urged her to pass the door-way, and was relieved when he saw +her within the room sitting down. Without so much as crossing the +threshold himself, he closed the door upon her, and turned the key in +the lock. Tapping at the window, he signified that she should open the +casement, and when she had done this he handed in the key to her. + +“You are locked in,” he said; “and your own mistress.” + +Even in her trouble she could not refrain from a faint smile at his +scrupulousness, as she took the door-key. + +“Do you feel better?” he went on. “If so, and you wish to give me some +of your supper, please do. If not, it is of no importance. I can get +some elsewhere.” + +The grateful sense of his kindness stirred her to action, though she +only knew half what that kindness really was. At the end of some ten +minutes she again came to the window, pushed it open, and said in a +whisper, “Giles!” He at once emerged from the shade, and saw that she +was preparing to hand him his share of the meal upon a plate. + +“I don’t like to treat you so hardly,” she murmured, with deep regret +in her words as she heard the rain pattering on the leaves. “But—I +suppose it is best to arrange like this?” + +“Oh yes,” he said, quickly. + +“I feel that I could never have reached Sherton.” + +“It was impossible.” + +“Are you sure you have a snug place out there?” (With renewed +misgiving.) + +“Quite. Have you found everything you want? I am afraid it is rather +rough accommodation.” + +“Can I notice defects? I have long passed that stage, and you know it, +Giles, or you ought to.” + +His eyes sadly contemplated her face as its pale responsiveness +modulated through a crowd of expressions that showed only too clearly +to what a pitch she was strung. If ever Winterborne’s heart fretted his +bosom it was at this sight of a perfectly defenceless creature +conditioned by such circumstances. He forgot his own agony in the +satisfaction of having at least found her a shelter. He took his plate +and cup from her hands, saying, “Now I’ll push the shutter to, and you +will find an iron pin on the inside, which you must fix into the bolt. +Do not stir in the morning till I come and call you.” + +She expressed an alarmed hope that he would not go very far away. + +“Oh no—I shall be quite within hail,” said Winterborne. + +She bolted the window as directed, and he retreated. His snug place +proved to be a wretched little shelter of the roughest kind, formed of +four hurdles thatched with brake-fern. Underneath were dry sticks, hay, +and other litter of the sort, upon which he sat down; and there in the +dark tried to eat his meal. But his appetite was quite gone. He pushed +the plate aside, and shook up the hay and sacks, so as to form a rude +couch, on which he flung himself down to sleep, for it was getting +late. + +But sleep he could not, for many reasons, of which not the least was +thought of his charge. He sat up, and looked towards the cot through +the damp obscurity. With all its external features the same as usual, +he could scarcely believe that it contained the dear friend—he would +not use a warmer name—who had come to him so unexpectedly, and, he +could not help admitting, so rashly. + +He had not ventured to ask her any particulars; but the position was +pretty clear without them. Though social law had negatived forever +their opening paradise of the previous June, it was not without stoical +pride that he accepted the present trying conjuncture. There was one +man on earth in whom she believed absolutely, and he was that man. That +this crisis could end in nothing but sorrow was a view for a moment +effaced by this triumphant thought of her trust in him; and the purity +of the affection with which he responded to that trust rendered him +more than proof against any frailty that besieged him in relation to +her. + +The rain, which had never ceased, now drew his attention by beginning +to drop through the meagre screen that covered him. He rose to attempt +some remedy for this discomfort, but the trembling of his knees and the +throbbing of his pulse told him that in his weakness he was unable to +fence against the storm, and he lay down to bear it as best he might. +He was angry with himself for his feebleness—he who had been so strong. +It was imperative that she should know nothing of his present state, +and to do that she must not see his face by daylight, for its color +would inevitably betray him. + +The next morning, accordingly, when it was hardly light, he rose and +dragged his stiff limbs about the precincts, preparing for her +everything she could require for getting breakfast within. On the bench +outside the window-sill he placed water, wood, and other necessaries, +writing with a piece of chalk beside them, “It is best that I should +not see you. Put my breakfast on the bench.” + +At seven o’clock he tapped at her window, as he had promised, +retreating at once, that she might not catch sight of him. But from his +shelter under the boughs he could see her very well, when, in response +to his signal, she opened the window and the light fell upon her face. +The languid largeness of her eyes showed that her sleep had been little +more than his own, and the pinkness of their lids, that her waking +hours had not been free from tears. + +She read the writing, seemed, he thought, disappointed, but took up the +materials he had provided, evidently thinking him some way off. Giles +waited on, assured that a girl who, in spite of her culture, knew what +country life was, would find no difficulty in the simple preparation of +their food. + +Within the cot it was all very much as he conjectured, though Grace had +slept much longer than he. After the loneliness of the night, she would +have been glad to see him; but appreciating his feeling when she read +the writing, she made no attempt to recall him. She found abundance of +provisions laid in, his plan being to replenish his buttery weekly, and +this being the day after the victualling van had called from Sherton. +When the meal was ready, she put what he required outside, as she had +done with the supper; and, notwithstanding her longing to see him, +withdrew from the window promptly, and left him to himself. + +It had been a leaden dawn, and the rain now steadily renewed its fall. +As she heard no more of Winterborne, she concluded that he had gone +away to his daily work, and forgotten that he had promised to accompany +her to Sherton; an erroneous conclusion, for he remained all day, by +force of his condition, within fifty yards of where she was. The +morning wore on; and in her doubt when to start, and how to travel, she +lingered yet, keeping the door carefully bolted, lest an intruder +should discover her. Locked in this place, she was comparatively safe, +at any rate, and doubted if she would be safe elsewhere. + +The humid gloom of an ordinary wet day was doubled by the shade and +drip of the leafage. Autumn, this year, was coming in with rains. +Gazing, in her enforced idleness, from the one window of the +living-room, she could see various small members of the animal +community that lived unmolested there—creatures of hair, fluff, and +scale, the toothed kind and the billed kind; underground creatures, +jointed and ringed—circumambulating the hut, under the impression that, +Giles having gone away, nobody was there; and eying it inquisitively +with a view to winter-quarters. Watching these neighbors, who knew +neither law nor sin, distracted her a little from her trouble; and she +managed to while away some portion of the afternoon by putting Giles’s +home in order and making little improvements which she deemed that he +would value when she was gone. + +Once or twice she fancied that she heard a faint noise amid the trees, +resembling a cough; but as it never came any nearer she concluded that +it was a squirrel or a bird. + +At last the daylight lessened, and she made up a larger fire for the +evenings were chilly. As soon as it was too dark—which was +comparatively early—to discern the human countenance in this place of +shadows, there came to the window to her great delight, a tapping which +she knew from its method to be Giles’s. + +She opened the casement instantly, and put out her hand to him, though +she could only just perceive his outline. He clasped her fingers, and +she noticed the heat of his palm and its shakiness. + +“He has been walking fast, in order to get here quickly,” she thought. +How could she know that he had just crawled out from the straw of the +shelter hard by; and that the heat of his hand was feverishness? + +“My dear, good Giles!” she burst out, impulsively. + +“Anybody would have done it for you,” replied Winterborne, with as much +matter-of-fact as he could summon. + +“About my getting to Exbury?” she said. + +“I have been thinking,” responded Giles, with tender deference, “that +you had better stay where you are for the present, if you wish not to +be caught. I need not tell you that the place is yours as long as you +like; and perhaps in a day or two, finding you absent, he will go away. +At any rate, in two or three days I could do anything to assist—such as +make inquiries, or go a great way towards Sherton-Abbas with you; for +the cider season will soon be coming on, and I want to run down to the +Vale to see how the crops are, and I shall go by the Sherton road. But +for a day or two I am busy here.” He was hoping that by the time +mentioned he would be strong enough to engage himself actively on her +behalf. “I hope you do not feel over-much melancholy in being a +prisoner?” + +She declared that she did not mind it; but she sighed. + +From long acquaintance they could read each other’s heart-symptoms like +books of large type. “I fear you are sorry you came,” said Giles, “and +that you think I should have advised you more firmly than I did not to +stay.” + +“Oh no, dear, dear friend,” answered Grace, with a heaving bosom. +“Don’t think that that is what I regret. What I regret is my enforced +treatment of you—dislodging you, excluding you from your own house. Why +should I not speak out? You know what I feel for you—what I have felt +for no other living man, what I shall never feel for a man again! But +as I have vowed myself to somebody else than you, and cannot be +released, I must behave as I do behave, and keep that vow. I am not +bound to him by any divine law, after what he has done; but I have +promised, and I will pay.” + +The rest of the evening was passed in his handing her such things as +she would require the next day, and casual remarks thereupon, an +occupation which diverted her mind to some degree from pathetic views +of her attitude towards him, and of her life in general. The only +infringement—if infringement it could be called—of his predetermined +bearing towards her was an involuntary pressing of her hand to his lips +when she put it through the casement to bid him good-night. He knew she +was weeping, though he could not see her tears. + +She again entreated his forgiveness for so selfishly appropriating the +cottage. But it would only be for a day or two more, she thought, since +go she must. + +He replied, yearningly, “I—I don’t like you to go away.” + +“Oh, Giles,” said she, “I know—I know! But—I am a woman, and you are a +man. I cannot speak more plainly. ‘Whatsoever things are pure, +whatsoever things are of good report’—you know what is in my mind, +because you know me so well.” + +“Yes, Grace, yes. I do not at all mean that the question between us has +not been settled by the fact of your marriage turning out hopelessly +unalterable. I merely meant—well, a feeling no more.” + +“In a week, at the outside, I should be discovered if I stayed here: +and I think that by law he could compel me to return to him.” + +“Yes; perhaps you are right. Go when you wish, dear Grace.” + +His last words that evening were a hopeful remark that all might be +well with her yet; that Mr. Fitzpiers would not intrude upon her life, +if he found that his presence cost her so much pain. Then the window +was closed, the shutters folded, and the rustle of his footsteps died +away. + +No sooner had she retired to rest that night than the wind began to +rise, and, after a few prefatory blasts, to be accompanied by rain. The +wind grew more violent, and as the storm went on, it was difficult to +believe that no opaque body, but only an invisible colorless thing, was +trampling and climbing over the roof, making branches creak, springing +out of the trees upon the chimney, popping its head into the flue, and +shrieking and blaspheming at every corner of the walls. As in the old +story, the assailant was a spectre which could be felt but not seen. +She had never before been so struck with the devilry of a gusty night +in a wood, because she had never been so entirely alone in spirit as +she was now. She seemed almost to be apart from herself—a vacuous +duplicate only. The recent self of physical animation and clear +intentions was not there. + +Sometimes a bough from an adjoining tree was swayed so low as to smite +the roof in the manner of a gigantic hand smiting the mouth of an +adversary, to be followed by a trickle of rain, as blood from the +wound. To all this weather Giles must be more or less exposed; how +much, she did not know. + +At last Grace could hardly endure the idea of such a hardship in +relation to him. Whatever he was suffering, it was she who had caused +it; he vacated his house on account of her. She was not worth such +self-sacrifice; she should not have accepted it of him. And then, as +her anxiety increased with increasing thought, there returned upon her +mind some incidents of her late intercourse with him, which she had +heeded but little at the time. The look of his face—what had there been +about his face which seemed different from its appearance as of yore? +Was it not thinner, less rich in hue, less like that of ripe autumn’s +brother to whom she had formerly compared him? And his voice; she had +distinctly noticed a change in tone. And his gait; surely it had been +feebler, stiffer, more like the gait of a weary man. That slight +occasional noise she had heard in the day, and attributed to squirrels, +it might have been his cough after all. + +Thus conviction took root in her perturbed mind that Winterborne was +ill, or had been so, and that he had carefully concealed his condition +from her that she might have no scruples about accepting a hospitality +which by the nature of the case expelled her entertainer. + +“My own, own, true l——, my dear kind friend!” she cried to herself. +“Oh, it shall not be—it shall not be!” + +She hastily wrapped herself up, and obtained a light, with which she +entered the adjoining room, the cot possessing only one floor. Setting +down the candle on the table here, she went to the door with the key in +her hand, and placed it in the lock. Before turning it she paused, her +fingers still clutching it; and pressing her other hand to her +forehead, she fell into agitating thought. + +A tattoo on the window, caused by the tree-droppings blowing against +it, brought her indecision to a close. She turned the key and opened +the door. + +The darkness was intense, seeming to touch her pupils like a substance. +She only now became aware how heavy the rainfall had been and was; the +dripping of the eaves splashed like a fountain. She stood listening +with parted lips, and holding the door in one hand, till her eyes, +growing accustomed to the obscurity, discerned the wild brandishing of +their boughs by the adjoining trees. At last she cried loudly with an +effort, “Giles! you may come in!” + +There was no immediate answer to her cry, and overpowered by her own +temerity, Grace retreated quickly, shut the door, and stood looking on +the floor. But it was not for long. She again lifted the latch, and +with far more determination than at first. + +“Giles, Giles!” she cried, with the full strength of her voice, and +without any of the shamefacedness that had characterized her first cry. +“Oh, come in—come in! Where are you? I have been wicked. I have thought +too much of myself! Do you hear? I don’t want to keep you out any +longer. I cannot bear that you should suffer so. Gi-i-iles!” + +A reply! It was a reply! Through the darkness and wind a voice reached +her, floating upon the weather as though a part of it. + +“Here I am—all right. Don’t trouble about me.” + +“Don’t you want to come in? Are you not wet? _Come to me! I don’t mind +what they say, or what they think any more._” + +“I am all right,” he repeated. “It is not necessary for me to come. +Good-night! good-night!” + +Grace sighed, turned and shut the door slowly. Could she have been +mistaken about his health? Perhaps, after all, she had perceived a +change in him because she had not seen him for so long. Time sometimes +did his ageing work in jerks, as she knew. Well, she had done all she +could. He would not come in. She retired to rest again. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +The next morning Grace was at the window early. She felt determined to +see him somehow that day, and prepared his breakfast eagerly. Eight +o’clock struck, and she had remembered that he had not come to arouse +her by a knocking, as usual, her own anxiety having caused her to stir. + +The breakfast was set in its place without. But he did not arrive to +take it; and she waited on. Nine o’clock arrived, and the breakfast was +cold; and still there was no Giles. A thrush, that had been repeating +itself a good deal on an opposite bush for some time, came and took a +morsel from the plate and bolted it, waited, looked around, and took +another. At ten o’clock she drew in the tray, and sat down to her own +solitary meal. He must have been called away on business early, the +rain having cleared off. + +Yet she would have liked to assure herself, by thoroughly exploring the +precincts of the hut, that he was nowhere in its vicinity; but as the +day was comparatively fine, the dread lest some stray passenger or +woodman should encounter her in such a reconnoitre paralyzed her wish. +The solitude was further accentuated to-day by the stopping of the +clock for want of winding, and the fall into the chimney-corner of +flakes of soot loosened by the rains. At noon she heard a slight +rustling outside the window, and found that it was caused by an eft +which had crept out of the leaves to bask in the last sun-rays that +would be worth having till the following May. + +She continually peeped out through the lattice, but could see little. +In front lay the brown leaves of last year, and upon them some +yellowish-green ones of this season that had been prematurely blown +down by the gale. Above stretched an old beech, with vast armpits, and +great pocket-holes in its sides where branches had been amputated in +past times; a black slug was trying to climb it. Dead boughs were +scattered about like ichthyosauri in a museum, and beyond them were +perishing woodbine stems resembling old ropes. + +From the other window all she could see were more trees, jacketed with +lichen and stockinged with moss. At their roots were stemless yellow +fungi like lemons and apricots, and tall fungi with more stem than +stool. Next were more trees close together, wrestling for existence, +their branches disfigured with wounds resulting from their mutual +rubbings and blows. It was the struggle between these neighbors that +she had heard in the night. Beneath them were the rotting stumps of +those of the group that had been vanquished long ago, rising from their +mossy setting like decayed teeth from green gums. Farther on were other +tufts of moss in islands divided by the shed leaves—variety upon +variety, dark green and pale green; moss-like little fir-trees, like +plush, like malachite stars, like nothing on earth except moss. + +The strain upon Grace’s mind in various ways was so great on this the +most desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would be +well-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. The +evening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found an +opening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiated +gauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, and +throwing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beech +that they were turned to gory hues. When night at last arrived, and +with it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down with +suspense. + +The simple evening meal, partly tea, partly supper, which Grace had +prepared, stood waiting upon the hearth; and yet Giles did not come. It +was now nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. As the room +grew darker, and only the firelight broke against the gloom of the +walls, she was convinced that it would be beyond her staying power to +pass the night without hearing from him or from somebody. Yet eight +o’clock drew on, and his form at the window did not appear. + +The meal remained untasted. Suddenly rising from before the hearth of +smouldering embers, where she had been crouching with her hands clasped +over her knees, she crossed the room, unlocked the door, and listened. +Every breath of wind had ceased with the decline of day, but the rain +had resumed the steady dripping of the night before. Grace might have +stood there five minutes when she fancied she heard that old sound, a +cough, at no great distance; and it was presently repeated. If it were +Winterborne’s, he must be near her; why, then, had he not visited her? + +A horrid misgiving that he could not visit her took possession of +Grace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hanging +above her head. To light it and go in the direction of the sound would +be the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions made +her hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at further +sounds from the same quarter. + +They were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, but +gradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. It was an +endless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature in +deep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap against +stones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice was +Winterborne’s. Yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; for +though he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied. + +A dreadful enlightenment spread through the mind of Grace. “Oh,” she +cried, in her anguish, as she hastily prepared herself to go out, “how +selfishly correct I am always—too, too correct! Cruel propriety is +killing the dearest heart that ever woman clasped to her own.” + +While speaking thus to herself she had lit the lantern, and hastening +out without further thought, took the direction whence the mutterings +had proceeded. The course was marked by a little path, which ended at a +distance of about forty yards in a small erection of hurdles, not much +larger than a shock of corn, such as were frequent in the woods and +copses when the cutting season was going on. It was too slight even to +be called a hovel, and was not high enough to stand upright in; +appearing, in short, to be erected for the temporary shelter of fuel. +The side towards Grace was open, and turning the light upon the +interior, she beheld what her prescient fear had pictured in snatches +all the way thither. + +Upon the straw within, Winterborne lay in his clothes, just as she had +seen him during the whole of her stay here, except that his hat was +off, and his hair matted and wild. + +Both his clothes and the straw were saturated with rain. His arms were +flung over his head; his face was flushed to an unnatural crimson. His +eyes had a burning brightness, and though they met her own, she +perceived that he did not recognize her. + +“Oh, my Giles,” she cried, “what have I done to you!” + +But she stopped no longer even to reproach herself. She saw that the +first thing to be thought of was to get him indoors. + +How Grace performed that labor she never could have exactly explained. +But by dint of clasping her arms round him, rearing him into a sitting +posture, and straining her strength to the uttermost, she put him on +one of the hurdles that was loose alongside, and taking the end of it +in both her hands, dragged him along the path to the entrance of the +hut, and, after a pause for breath, in at the door-way. + +It was somewhat singular that Giles in his semi-conscious state +acquiesced unresistingly in all that she did. But he never for a moment +recognized her—continuing his rapid conversation to himself, and +seeming to look upon her as some angel, or other supernatural creature +of the visionary world in which he was mentally living. The undertaking +occupied her more than ten minutes; but by that time, to her great +thankfulness, he was in the inner room, lying on the bed, his damp +outer clothing removed. + +Then the unhappy Grace regarded him by the light of the candle. There +was something in his look which agonized her, in the rush of his +thoughts, accelerating their speed from minute to minute. He seemed to +be passing through the universe of ideas like a comet—erratic, +inapprehensible, untraceable. + +Grace’s distraction was almost as great as his. In a few moments she +firmly believed he was dying. Unable to withstand her impulse, she +knelt down beside him, kissed his hands and his face and his hair, +exclaiming, in a low voice, “How could I? How could I?” + +Her timid morality had, indeed, underrated his chivalry till now, +though she knew him so well. The purity of his nature, his freedom from +the grosser passions, his scrupulous delicacy, had never been fully +understood by Grace till this strange self-sacrifice in lonely +juxtaposition to her own person was revealed. The perception of it +added something that was little short of reverence to the deep +affection for him of a woman who, herself, had more of Artemis than of +Aphrodite in her constitution. + +All that a tender nurse could do, Grace did; and the power to express +her solicitude in action, unconscious though the sufferer was, brought +her mournful satisfaction. She bathed his hot head, wiped his +perspiring hands, moistened his lips, cooled his fiery eyelids, sponged +his heated skin, and administered whatever she could find in the house +that the imagination could conceive as likely to be in any way +alleviating. That she might have been the cause, or partially the +cause, of all this, interfused misery with her sorrow. + +Six months before this date a scene, almost similar in its mechanical +parts, had been enacted at Hintock House. It was between a pair of +persons most intimately connected in their lives with these. Outwardly +like as it had been, it was yet infinite in spiritual difference, +though a woman’s devotion had been common to both. + +Grace rose from her attitude of affection, and, bracing her energies, +saw that something practical must immediately be done. Much as she +would have liked, in the emotion of the moment, to keep him entirely to +herself, medical assistance was necessary while there remained a +possibility of preserving him alive. Such assistance was fatal to her +own concealment; but even had the chance of benefiting him been less +than it was, she would have run the hazard for his sake. The question +was, where should she get a medical man, competent and near? + +There was one such man, and only one, within accessible distance; a man +who, if it were possible to save Winterborne’s life, had the brain most +likely to do it. If human pressure could bring him, that man ought to +be brought to the sick Giles’s side. The attempt should be made. + +Yet she dreaded to leave her patient, and the minutes raced past, and +yet she postponed her departure. At last, when it was after eleven +o’clock, Winterborne fell into a fitful sleep, and it seemed to afford +her an opportunity. + +She hastily made him as comfortable as she could, put on her things, +cut a new candle from the bunch hanging in the cupboard, and having set +it up, and placed it so that the light did not fall upon his eyes, she +closed the door and started. + +The spirit of Winterborne seemed to keep her company and banish all +sense of darkness from her mind. The rains had imparted a +phosphorescence to the pieces of touchwood and rotting leaves that lay +about her path, which, as scattered by her feet, spread abroad like +spilt milk. She would not run the hazard of losing her way by plunging +into any short, unfrequented track through the denser parts of the +woodland, but followed a more open course, which eventually brought her +to the highway. Once here, she ran along with great speed, animated by +a devoted purpose which had much about it that was stoical; and it was +with scarcely any faltering of spirit that, after an hour’s progress, +she passed over Rubdown Hill, and onward towards that same Hintock, and +that same house, out of which she had fled a few days before in +irresistible alarm. But that had happened which, above all other things +of chance and change, could make her deliberately frustrate her plan of +flight and sink all regard of personal consequences. + +One speciality of Fitzpiers’s was respected by Grace as much as +ever—his professional skill. In this she was right. Had his persistence +equalled his insight, instead of being the spasmodic and fitful thing +it was, fame and fortune need never have remained a wish with him. His +freedom from conventional errors and crusted prejudices had, indeed, +been such as to retard rather than accelerate his advance in Hintock +and its neighborhood, where people could not believe that nature +herself effected cures, and that the doctor’s business was only to +smooth the way. + +It was past midnight when Grace arrived opposite her father’s house, +now again temporarily occupied by her husband, unless he had already +gone away. Ever since her emergence from the denser plantations about +Winterborne’s residence a pervasive lightness had hung in the damp +autumn sky, in spite of the vault of cloud, signifying that a moon of +some age was shining above its arch. The two white gates were distinct, +and the white balls on the pillars, and the puddles and damp ruts left +by the recent rain, had a cold, corpse-eyed luminousness. She entered +by the lower gate, and crossed the quadrangle to the wing wherein the +apartments that had been hers since her marriage were situate, till she +stood under a window which, if her husband were in the house, gave +light to his bedchamber. + +She faltered, and paused with her hand on her heart, in spite of +herself. Could she call to her presence the very cause of all her +foregoing troubles? Alas!—old Jones was seven miles off; Giles was +possibly dying—what else could she do? + +It was in a perspiration, wrought even more by consciousness than by +exercise, that she picked up some gravel, threw it at the panes, and +waited to see the result. The night-bell which had been fixed when +Fitzpiers first took up his residence there still remained; but as it +had fallen into disuse with the collapse of his practice, and his +elopement, she did not venture to pull it now. + +Whoever slept in the room had heard her signal, slight as it was. In +half a minute the window was opened, and a voice said “Yes?” +inquiringly. Grace recognized her husband in the speaker at once. Her +effort was now to disguise her own accents. + +“Doctor,” she said, in as unusual a tone as she could command, “a man +is dangerously ill in One-chimney Hut, out towards Delborough, and you +must go to him at once—in all mercy!” + +“I will, readily.” + +The alacrity, surprise, and pleasure expressed in his reply amazed her +for a moment. But, in truth, they denoted the sudden relief of a man +who, having got back in a mood of contrition, from erratic abandonment +to fearful joys, found the soothing routine of professional practice +unexpectedly opening anew to him. The highest desire of his soul just +now was for a respectable life of painstaking. If this, his first +summons since his return, had been to attend upon a cat or dog, he +would scarcely have refused it in the circumstances. + +“Do you know the way?” she asked. + +“Yes,” said he. + +“One-chimney Hut,” she repeated. “And—immediately!” + +“Yes, yes,” said Fitzpiers. + +Grace remained no longer. She passed out of the white gate without +slamming it, and hastened on her way back. Her husband, then, had +re-entered her father’s house. How he had been able to effect a +reconciliation with the old man, what were the terms of the treaty +between them, she could not so much as conjecture. Some sort of truce +must have been entered into, that was all she could say. But close as +the question lay to her own life, there was a more urgent one which +banished it; and she traced her steps quickly along the meandering +track-ways. + +Meanwhile, Fitzpiers was preparing to leave the house. The state of his +mind, over and above his professional zeal, was peculiar. At Grace’s +first remark he had not recognized or suspected her presence; but as +she went on, he was awakened to the great resemblance of the speaker’s +voice to his wife’s. He had taken in such good faith the statement of +the household on his arrival, that she had gone on a visit for a time +because she could not at once bring her mind to be reconciled to him, +that he could not quite actually believe this comer to be she. It was +one of the features of Fitzpiers’s repentant humor at this date that, +on receiving the explanation of her absence, he had made no attempt to +outrage her feelings by following her; though nobody had informed him +how very shortly her departure had preceded his entry, and of all that +might have been inferred from her precipitancy. + +Melbury, after much alarm and consideration, had decided not to follow +her either. He sympathized with her flight, much as he deplored it; +moreover, the tragic color of the antecedent events that he had been a +great means of creating checked his instinct to interfere. He prayed +and trusted that she had got into no danger on her way (as he supposed) +to Sherton, and thence to Exbury, if that were the place she had gone +to, forbearing all inquiry which the strangeness of her departure would +have made natural. A few months before this time a performance by Grace +of one-tenth the magnitude of this would have aroused him to unwonted +investigation. + +It was in the same spirit that he had tacitly assented to Fitzpiers’s +domicilation there. The two men had not met face to face, but Mrs. +Melbury had proposed herself as an intermediary, who made the surgeon’s +re-entrance comparatively easy to him. Everything was provisional, and +nobody asked questions. Fitzpiers had come in the performance of a plan +of penitence, which had originated in circumstances hereafter to be +explained; his self-humiliation to the very bass-string was deliberate; +and as soon as a call reached him from the bedside of a dying man his +desire was to set to work and do as much good as he could with the +least possible fuss or show. He therefore refrained from calling up a +stableman to get ready any horse or gig, and set out for One-chimney +Hut on foot, as Grace had done. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +She re-entered the hut, flung off her bonnet and cloak, and approached +the sufferer. He had begun anew those terrible mutterings, and his +hands were cold. As soon as she saw him there returned to her that +agony of mind which the stimulus of her journey had thrown off for a +time. + +Could he really be dying? She bathed him, kissed him, forgot all things +but the fact that lying there before her was he who had loved her more +than the mere lover would have loved; had martyred himself for her +comfort, cared more for her self-respect than she had thought of +caring. This mood continued till she heard quick, smart footsteps +without; she knew whose footsteps they were. + +Grace sat on the inside of the bed against the wall, holding Giles’s +hand, so that when her husband entered the patient lay between herself +and him. He stood transfixed at first, noticing Grace only. Slowly he +dropped his glance and discerned who the prostrate man was. Strangely +enough, though Grace’s distaste for her husband’s company had amounted +almost to dread, and culminated in actual flight, at this moment her +last and least feeling was personal. Sensitive femininity was eclipsed +by self-effacing purpose, and that it was a husband who stood there was +forgotten. The first look that possessed her face was relief; +satisfaction at the presence of the physician obliterated thought of +the man, which only returned in the form of a sub-consciousness that +did not interfere with her words. + +“Is he dying—is there any hope?” she cried. + +“Grace!” said Fitzpiers, in an indescribable whisper—more than +invocating, if not quite deprecatory. + +He was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic +character—though that was striking enough to a man who called himself +the husband of the sufferer’s friend and nurse—but in its character as +the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which +he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been Felice Charmond. + +“Is he in great danger—can you save him?” she cried again. + +Fitzpiers aroused himself, came a little nearer, and examined +Winterborne as he stood. His inspection was concluded in a mere glance. +Before he spoke he looked at her contemplatively as to the effect of +his coming words. + +“He is dying,” he said, with dry precision. + +“What?” said she. + +“Nothing can be done, by me or any other man. It will soon be all over. +The extremities are dead already.” His eyes still remained fixed on +her; the conclusion to which he had come seeming to end his interest, +professional and otherwise, in Winterborne forever. + +“But it cannot be! He was well three days ago.” + +“Not well, I suspect. This seems like a secondary attack, which has +followed some previous illness—possibly typhoid—it may have been months +ago, or recently.” + +“Ah—he was not well—you are right. He was ill—he was ill when I came.” + +There was nothing more to do or say. She crouched down at the side of +the bed, and Fitzpiers took a seat. Thus they remained in silence, and +long as it lasted she never turned her eyes, or apparently her +thoughts, at all to her husband. He occasionally murmured, with +automatic authority, some slight directions for alleviating the pain of +the dying man, which she mechanically obeyed, bending over him during +the intervals in silent tears. + +Winterborne never recovered consciousness of what was passing; and that +he was going became soon perceptible also to her. In less than an hour +the delirium ceased; then there was an interval of somnolent +painlessness and soft breathing, at the end of which Winterborne passed +quietly away. + +Then Fitzpiers broke the silence. “Have you lived here long?” said he. + +Grace was wild with sorrow—with all that had befallen her—with the +cruelties that had attacked her—with life—with Heaven. She answered at +random. “Yes. By what right do you ask?” + +“Don’t think I claim any right,” said Fitzpiers, sadly. “It is for you +to do and say what you choose. I admit, quite as much as you feel, that +I am a vagabond—a brute—not worthy to possess the smallest fragment of +you. But here I am, and I have happened to take sufficient interest in +you to make that inquiry.” + +“He is everything to me!” said Grace, hardly heeding her husband, and +laying her hand reverently on the dead man’s eyelids, where she kept it +a long time, pressing down their lashes with gentle touches, as if she +were stroking a little bird. + +He watched her a while, and then glanced round the chamber where his +eyes fell upon a few dressing necessaries that she had brought. + +“Grace—if I may call you so,” he said, “I have been already humiliated +almost to the depths. I have come back since you refused to join me +elsewhere—I have entered your father’s house, and borne all that that +cost me without flinching, because I have felt that I deserved +humiliation. But is there a yet greater humiliation in store for me? +You say you have been living here—that he is everything to you. Am I to +draw from that the obvious, the extremest inference?” + +Triumph at any price is sweet to men and women—especially the latter. +It was her first and last opportunity of repaying him for the cruel +contumely which she had borne at his hands so docilely. + +“Yes,” she answered; and there was that in her subtly compounded nature +which made her feel a thrill of pride as she did so. + +Yet the moment after she had so mightily belied her character she half +repented. Her husband had turned as white as the wall behind him. It +seemed as if all that remained to him of life and spirit had been +abstracted at a stroke. Yet he did not move, and in his efforts at +self-control closed his mouth together as a vice. His determination was +fairly successful, though she saw how very much greater than she had +expected her triumph had been. Presently he looked across at +Winterborne. + +“Would it startle you to hear,” he said, as if he hardly had breath to +utter the words, “that she who was to me what he was to you is dead +also?” + +“Dead—_she_ dead?” exclaimed Grace. + +“Yes. Felice Charmond is where this young man is.” + +“Never!” said Grace, vehemently. + +He went on without heeding the insinuation: “And I came back to try to +make it up with you—but—” + +Fitzpiers rose, and moved across the room to go away, looking downward +with the droop of a man whose hope was turned to apathy, if not +despair. In going round the door his eye fell upon her once more. She +was still bending over the body of Winterborne, her face close to the +young man’s. + +“Have you been kissing him during his illness?” asked her husband. + +“Yes.” + +“Since his fevered state set in?” + +“Yes.” + +“On his lips?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then you will do well to take a few drops of this in water as soon as +possible.” He drew a small phial from his pocket and returned to offer +it to her. + +Grace shook her head. + +“If you don’t do as I tell you you may soon be like him.” + +“I don’t care. I wish to die.” + +“I’ll put it here,” said Fitzpiers, placing the bottle on a ledge +beside him. “The sin of not having warned you will not be upon my head +at any rate, among my other sins. I am now going, and I will send +somebody to you. Your father does not know that you are here, so I +suppose I shall be bound to tell him?” + +“Certainly.” + +Fitzpiers left the cot, and the stroke of his feet was soon immersed in +the silence that pervaded the spot. Grace remained kneeling and +weeping, she hardly knew how long, and then she sat up, covered poor +Giles’s features, and went towards the door where her husband had +stood. No sign of any other comer greeted her ear, the only perceptible +sounds being the tiny cracklings of the dead leaves, which, like a +feather-bed, had not yet done rising to their normal level where +indented by the pressure of her husband’s receding footsteps. It +reminded her that she had been struck with the change in his aspect; +the extremely intellectual look that had always been in his face was +wrought to a finer phase by thinness, and a care-worn dignity had been +superadded. She returned to Winterborne’s side, and during her +meditations another tread drew near the door, entered the outer room, +and halted at the entrance of the chamber where Grace was. + +“What—Marty!” said Grace. + +“Yes. I have heard,” said Marty, whose demeanor had lost all its +girlishness under the stroke that seemed almost literally to have +bruised her. + +“He died for me!” murmured Grace, heavily. + +Marty did not fully comprehend; and she answered, “He belongs to +neither of us now, and your beauty is no more powerful with him than my +plainness. I have come to help you, ma’am. He never cared for me, and +he cared much for you; but he cares for us both alike now.” + +“Oh don’t, don’t, Marty!” + +Marty said no more, but knelt over Winterborne from the other side. + +“Did you meet my hus—Mr. Fitzpiers?” + +“No!” + +“Then what brought you here?” + +“I come this way sometimes. I have got to go to the farther side of the +wood this time of the year, and am obliged to get there before four +o’clock in the morning, to begin heating the oven for the early baking. +I have passed by here often at this time.” + +Grace looked at her quickly. “Then did you know I was here?” + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“Did you tell anybody?” + +“No. I knew you lived in the hut, that he had gied it up to ye, and +lodged out himself.” + +“Did you know where he lodged?” + +“No. That I couldn’t find out. Was it at Delborough?” + +“No. It was not there, Marty. Would it had been! It would have +saved—saved—” To check her tears she turned, and seeing a book on the +window-bench, took it up. “Look, Marty, this is a Psalter. He was not +an outwardly religious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart. +Shall we read a psalm over him?” + +“Oh yes—we will—with all my heart!” + +Grace opened the thin brown book, which poor Giles had kept at hand +mainly for the convenience of whetting his pen-knife upon its leather +covers. She began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar to +women only on such occasions. When it was over, Marty said, “I should +like to pray for his soul.” + +“So should I,” said her companion. “But we must not.” + +“Why? Nobody would know.” + +Grace could not resist the argument, influenced as she was by the sense +of making amends for having neglected him in the body; and their tender +voices united and filled the narrow room with supplicatory murmurs that +a Calvinist might have envied. They had hardly ended when now and more +numerous foot-falls were audible, also persons in conversation, one of +whom Grace recognized as her father. + +She rose, and went to the outer apartment, in which there was only such +light as beamed from the inner one. Melbury and Mrs. Melbury were +standing there. + +“I don’t reproach you, Grace,” said her father, with an estranged +manner, and in a voice not at all like his old voice. “What has come +upon you and us is beyond reproach, beyond weeping, and beyond wailing. +Perhaps I drove you to it. But I am hurt; I am scourged; I am +astonished. In the face of this there is nothing to be said.” + +Without replying, Grace turned and glided back to the inner chamber. +“Marty,” she said, quickly, “I cannot look my father in the face until +he knows the true circumstances of my life here. Go and tell him—what +you have told me—what you saw—that he gave up his house to me.” + +She sat down, her face buried in her hands, and Marty went, and after a +short absence returned. Then Grace rose, and going out asked her father +if he had met her husband. + +“Yes,” said Melbury. + +“And you know all that has happened?” + +“I do. Forgive me, Grace, for suspecting ye of worse than rashness—I +ought to know ye better. Are you coming with me to what was once your +home?” + +“No. I stay here with HIM. Take no account of me any more.” + +The unwonted, perplexing, agitating relations in which she had stood to +Winterborne quite lately—brought about by Melbury’s own +contrivance—could not fail to soften the natural anger of a parent at +her more recent doings. “My daughter, things are bad,” he rejoined. +“But why do you persevere to make ’em worse? What good can you do to +Giles by staying here with him? Mind, I ask no questions. I don’t +inquire why you decided to come here, or anything as to what your +course would have been if he had not died, though I know there’s no +deliberate harm in ye. As for me, I have lost all claim upon you, and I +make no complaint. But I do say that by coming back with me now you +will show no less kindness to him, and escape any sound of shame. + +“But I don’t wish to escape it.” + +“If you don’t on your own account, cannot you wish to on mine and hers? +Nobody except our household knows that you have left home. Then why +should you, by a piece of perverseness, bring down my gray hairs with +sorrow to the grave?” + +“If it were not for my husband—” she began, moved by his words. “But +how can I meet him there? How can any woman who is not a mere man’s +creature join him after what has taken place?” + +“He would go away again rather than keep you out of my house.” + +“How do you know that, father?” + +“We met him on our way here, and he told us so,” said Mrs. Melbury. “He +had said something like it before. He seems very much upset +altogether.” + +“He declared to her when he came to our house that he would wait for +time and devotion to bring about his forgiveness,” said her husband. +“That was it, wasn’t it, Lucy?” + +“Yes. That he would not intrude upon you, Grace, till you gave him +absolute permission,” Mrs. Melbury added. + +This antecedent considerateness in Fitzpiers was as welcome to Grace as +it was unexpected; and though she did not desire his presence, she was +sorry that by her retaliatory fiction she had given him a different +reason for avoiding her. She made no further objections to accompanying +her parents, taking them into the inner room to give Winterborne a last +look, and gathering up the two or three things that belonged to her. +While she was doing this the two women came who had been called by +Melbury, and at their heels poor Creedle. + +“Forgive me, but I can’t rule my mourning nohow as a man should, Mr. +Melbury,” he said. “I ha’n’t seen him since Thursday se’night, and have +wondered for days and days where he’s been keeping. There was I +expecting him to come and tell me to wash out the cider-barrels against +the making, and here was he— Well, I’ve knowed him from table-high; I +knowed his father—used to bide about upon two sticks in the sun afore +he died!—and now I’ve seen the end of the family, which we can ill +afford to lose, wi’ such a scanty lot of good folk in Hintock as we’ve +got. And now Robert Creedle will be nailed up in parish boards ’a +b’lieve; and noboby will glutch down a sigh for he!” + +They started for home, Marty and Creedle remaining behind. For a time +Grace and her father walked side by side without speaking. It was just +in the blue of the dawn, and the chilling tone of the sky was reflected +in her cold, wet face. The whole wood seemed to be a house of death, +pervaded by loss to its uttermost length and breadth. Winterborne was +gone, and the copses seemed to show the want of him; those young trees, +so many of which he had planted, and of which he had spoken so truly +when he said that he should fall before they fell, were at that very +moment sending out their roots in the direction that he had given them +with his subtle hand. + +“One thing made it tolerable to us that your husband should come back +to the house,” said Melbury at last—“the death of Mrs. Charmond.” + +“Ah, yes,” said Grace, arousing slightly to the recollection, “he told +me so.” + +“Did he tell you how she died? It was no such death as Giles’s. She was +shot—by a disappointed lover. It occurred in Germany. The unfortunate +man shot himself afterwards. He was that South Carolina gentleman of +very passionate nature who used to haunt this place to force her to an +interview, and followed her about everywhere. So ends the brilliant +Felice Charmond—once a good friend to me—but no friend to you.” + +“I can forgive her,” said Grace, absently. “Did Edgar tell you of +this?” + +“No; but he put a London newspaper, giving an account of it, on the +hall table, folded in such a way that we should see it. It will be in +the Sherton paper this week, no doubt. To make the event more solemn +still to him, he had just before had sharp words with her, and left +her. He told Lucy this, as nothing about him appears in the newspaper. +And the cause of the quarrel was, of all people, she we’ve left behind +us.” + +“Do you mean Marty?” Grace spoke the words but perfunctorily. For, +pertinent and pointed as Melbury’s story was, she had no heart for it +now. + +“Yes. Marty South.” Melbury persisted in his narrative, to divert her +from her present grief, if possible. “Before he went away she wrote him +a letter, which he kept in his, pocket a long while before reading. He +chanced to pull it out in Mrs. Charmond’s, presence, and read it out +loud. It contained something which teased her very much, and that led +to the rupture. She was following him to make it up when she met with +her terrible death.” + +Melbury did not know enough to give the gist of the incident, which was +that Marty South’s letter had been concerning a certain personal +adornment common to herself and Mrs. Charmond. Her bullet reached its +billet at last. The scene between Fitzpiers and Felice had been sharp, +as only a scene can be which arises out of the mortification of one +woman by another in the presence of a lover. True, Marty had not +effected it by word of mouth; the charge about the locks of hair was +made simply by Fitzpiers reading her letter to him aloud to Felice in +the playfully ironical tones of one who had become a little weary of +his situation, and was finding his friend, in the phrase of George +Herbert, a “flat delight.” He had stroked those false tresses with his +hand many a time without knowing them to be transplanted, and it was +impossible when the discovery was so abruptly made to avoid being +finely satirical, despite her generous disposition. + +That was how it had begun, and tragedy had been its end. On his abrupt +departure she had followed him to the station but the train was gone; +and in travelling to Baden in search of him she had met his rival, +whose reproaches led to an altercation, and the death of both. Of that +precipitate scene of passion and crime Fitzpiers had known nothing till +he saw an account of it in the papers, where, fortunately for himself, +no mention was made of his prior acquaintance with the unhappy lady; +nor was there any allusion to him in the subsequent inquiry, the double +death being attributed to some gambling losses, though, in point of +fact, neither one of them had visited the tables. + +Melbury and his daughter drew near their house, having seen but one +living thing on their way, a squirrel, which did not run up its tree, +but, dropping the sweet chestnut which it carried, cried +chut-chut-chut, and stamped with its hind legs on the ground. When the +roofs and chimneys of the homestead began to emerge from the screen of +boughs, Grace started, and checked herself in her abstracted advance. + +“You clearly understand,” she said to her step-mother some of her old +misgiving returning, “that I am coming back only on condition of his +leaving as he promised? Will you let him know this, that there may be +no mistake?” + +Mrs. Melbury, who had some long private talks with Fitzpiers, assured +Grace that she need have no doubts on that point, and that he would +probably be gone by the evening. Grace then entered with them into +Melbury’s wing of the house, and sat down listlessly in the parlor, +while her step-mother went to Fitzpiers. + +The prompt obedience to her wishes which the surgeon showed did honor +to him, if anything could. Before Mrs. Melbury had returned to the room +Grace, who was sitting on the parlor window-bench, saw her husband go +from the door under the increasing light of morning, with a bag in his +hand. While passing through the gate he turned his head. The firelight +of the room she sat in threw her figure into dark relief against the +window as she looked through the panes, and he must have seen her +distinctly. In a moment he went on, the gate fell to, and he +disappeared. At the hut she had declared that another had displaced +him; and now she had banished him. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +Fitzpiers had hardly been gone an hour when Grace began to sicken. The +next day she kept her room. Old Jones was called in; he murmured some +statements in which the words “feverish symptoms” occurred. Grace heard +them, and guessed the means by which she had brought this visitation +upon herself. + +One day, while she still lay there with her head throbbing, wondering +if she were really going to join him who had gone before, Grammer +Oliver came to her bedside. “I don’t know whe’r this is meant for you +to take, ma’am,” she said, “but I have found it on the table. It was +left by Marty, I think, when she came this morning.” + +Grace turned her hot eyes upon what Grammer held up. It was the phial +left at the hut by her husband when he had begged her to take some +drops of its contents if she wished to preserve herself from falling a +victim to the malady which had pulled down Winterborne. She examined it +as well as she could. The liquid was of an opaline hue, and bore a +label with an inscription in Italian. He had probably got it in his +wanderings abroad. She knew but little Italian, but could understand +that the cordial was a febrifuge of some sort. Her father, her mother, +and all the household were anxious for her recovery, and she resolved +to obey her husband’s directions. Whatever the risk, if any, she was +prepared to run it. A glass of water was brought, and the drops dropped +in. + +The effect, though not miraculous, was remarkable. In less than an hour +she felt calmer, cooler, better able to reflect—less inclined to fret +and chafe and wear herself away. She took a few drops more. From that +time the fever retreated, and went out like a damped conflagration. + +“How clever he is!” she said, regretfully. “Why could he not have had +more principle, so as to turn his great talents to good account? +Perhaps he has saved my useless life. But he doesn’t know it, and +doesn’t care whether he has saved it or not; and on that account will +never be told by me! Probably he only gave it to me in the arrogance of +his skill, to show the greatness of his resources beside mine, as +Elijah drew down fire from heaven.” + +As soon as she had quite recovered from this foiled attack upon her +life, Grace went to Marty South’s cottage. The current of her being had +again set towards the lost Giles Winterborne. + +“Marty,” she said, “we both loved him. We will go to his grave +together.” + +Great Hintock church stood at the upper part of the village, and could +be reached without passing through the street. In the dusk of the late +September day they went thither by secret ways, walking mostly in +silence side by side, each busied with her own thoughts. Grace had a +trouble exceeding Marty’s—that haunting sense of having put out the +light of his life by her own hasty doings. She had tried to persuade +herself that he might have died of his illness, even if she had not +taken possession of his house. Sometimes she succeeded in her attempt; +sometimes she did not. + +They stood by the grave together, and though the sun had gone down, +they could see over the woodland for miles, and down to the vale in +which he had been accustomed to descend every year, with his portable +mill and press, to make cider about this time. + +Perhaps Grace’s first grief, the discovery that if he had lived he +could never have claimed her, had some power in softening this, the +second. On Marty’s part there was the same consideration; never would +she have been his. As no anticipation of gratified affection had been +in existence while he was with them, there was none to be disappointed +now that he had gone. + +Grace was abased when, by degrees, she found that she had never +understood Giles as Marty had done. Marty South alone, of all the women +in Hintock and the world, had approximated to Winterborne’s level of +intelligent intercourse with nature. In that respect she had formed the +complement to him in the other sex, had lived as his counterpart, had +subjoined her thought to his as a corollary. + +The casual glimpses which the ordinary population bestowed upon that +wondrous world of sap and leaves called the Hintock woods had been with +these two, Giles and Marty, a clear gaze. They had been possessed of +its finer mysteries as of commonplace knowledge; had been able to read +its hieroglyphs as ordinary writing; to them the sights and sounds of +night, winter, wind, storm, amid those dense boughs, which had to Grace +a touch of the uncanny, and even the supernatural, were simple +occurrences whose origin, continuance, and laws they foreknew. They had +planted together, and together they had felled; together they had, with +the run of the years, mentally collected those remoter signs and +symbols which, seen in few, were of runic obscurity, but all together +made an alphabet. From the light lashing of the twigs upon their faces, +when brushing through them in the dark, they could pronounce upon the +species of the tree whence they stretched; from the quality of the +wind’s murmur through a bough they could in like manner name its sort +afar off. They knew by a glance at a trunk if its heart were sound, or +tainted with incipient decay, and by the state of its upper twigs, the +stratum that had been reached by its roots. The artifices of the +seasons were seen by them from the conjuror’s own point of view, and +not from that of the spectator’s. + +“He ought to have married _you_, Marty, and nobody else in the world!” +said Grace, with conviction, after thinking somewhat in the above +strain. + +Marty shook her head. “In all our out-door days and years together, +ma’am,” she replied, “the one thing he never spoke of to me was love; +nor I to him.” + +“Yet you and he could speak in a tongue that nobody else knew—not even +my father, though he came nearest knowing—the tongue of the trees and +fruits and flowers themselves.” + +She could indulge in mournful fancies like this to Marty; but the hard +core to her grief—which Marty’s had not—remained. Had she been sure +that Giles’s death resulted entirely from his exposure, it would have +driven her well-nigh to insanity; but there was always that bare +possibility that his exposure had only precipitated what was +inevitable. She longed to believe that it had not done even this. + +There was only one man whose opinion on the circumstances she would be +at all disposed to trust. Her husband was that man. Yet to ask him it +would be necessary to detail the true conditions in which she and +Winterborne had lived during these three or four critical days that +followed her flight; and in withdrawing her original defiant +announcement on that point, there seemed a weakness she did not care to +show. She never doubted that Fitzpiers would believe her if she made a +clean confession of the actual situation; but to volunteer the +correction would seem like signalling for a truce, and that, in her +present frame of mind, was what she did not feel the need of. + +It will probably not appear a surprising statement, after what has been +already declared of Fitzpiers, that the man whom Grace’s fidelity could +not keep faithful was stung into passionate throbs of interest +concerning her by her avowal of the contrary. + +He declared to himself that he had never known her dangerously full +compass if she were capable of such a reprisal; and, melancholy as it +may be to admit the fact, his own humiliation and regret engendered a +smouldering admiration of her. + +He passed a month or two of great misery at Exbury, the place to which +he had retired—quite as much misery indeed as Grace, could she have +known of it, would have been inclined to inflict upon any living +creature, how much soever he might have wronged her. Then a sudden hope +dawned upon him; he wondered if her affirmation were true. He asked +himself whether it were not the act of a woman whose natural purity and +innocence had blinded her to the contingencies of such an announcement. +His wide experience of the sex had taught him that, in many cases, +women who ventured on hazardous matters did so because they lacked an +imagination sensuous enough to feel their full force. In this light +Grace’s bold avowal might merely have denoted the desperation of one +who was a child to the realities of obliquity. + +Fitzpiers’s mental sufferings and suspense led him at last to take a +melancholy journey to the neighborhood of Little Hintock; and here he +hovered for hours around the scene of the purest emotional experiences +that he had ever known in his life. He walked about the woods that +surrounded Melbury’s house, keeping out of sight like a criminal. It +was a fine evening, and on his way homeward he passed near Marty +South’s cottage. As usual she had lighted her candle without closing +her shutters; he saw her within as he had seen her many times before. + +She was polishing tools, and though he had not wished to show himself, +he could not resist speaking in to her through the half-open door. +“What are you doing that for, Marty?” + +“Because I want to clean them. They are not mine.” He could see, +indeed, that they were not hers, for one was a spade, large and heavy, +and another was a bill-hook which she could only have used with both +hands. The spade, though not a new one, had been so completely +burnished that it was bright as silver. + +Fitzpiers somehow divined that they were Giles Winterborne’s, and he +put the question to her. + +She replied in the affirmative. “I am going to keep ’em,” she said, +“but I can’t get his apple-mill and press. I wish could; it is going to +be sold, they say.” + +“Then I will buy it for you,” said Fitzpiers. “That will be making you +a return for a kindness you did me.” His glance fell upon the girl’s +rare-colored hair, which had grown again. “Oh, Marty, those locks of +yours—and that letter! But it was a kindness to send it, nevertheless,” +he added, musingly. + +After this there was confidence between them—such confidence as there +had never been before. Marty was shy, indeed, of speaking about the +letter, and her motives in writing it; but she thanked him warmly for +his promise of the cider-press. She would travel with it in the autumn +season, as he had done, she said. She would be quite strong enough, +with old Creedle as an assistant. + +“Ah! there was one nearer to him than you,” said Fitzpiers, referring +to Winterborne. “One who lived where he lived, and was with him when he +died.” + +Then Marty, suspecting that he did not know the true circumstances, +from the fact that Mrs. Fitzpiers and himself were living apart, told +him of Giles’s generosity to Grace in giving up his house to her at the +risk, and possibly the sacrifice, of his own life. When the surgeon +heard it he almost envied Giles his chivalrous character. He expressed +a wish to Marty that his visit to her should be kept secret, and went +home thoughtful, feeling that in more that one sense his journey to +Hintock had not been in vain. + +He would have given much to win Grace’s forgiveness then. But whatever +he dared hope for in that kind from the future, there was nothing to be +done yet, while Giles Winterborne’s memory was green. To wait was +imperative. A little time might melt her frozen thoughts, and lead her +to look on him with toleration, if not with love. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +Weeks and months of mourning for Winterborne had been passed by Grace +in the soothing monotony of the memorial act to which she and Marty had +devoted themselves. Twice a week the pair went in the dusk to Great +Hintock, and, like the two mourners in _Cymbeline_, sweetened his sad +grave with their flowers and their tears. Sometimes Grace thought that +it was a pity neither one of them had been his wife for a little while, +and given the world a copy of him who was so valuable in their eyes. +Nothing ever had brought home to her with such force as this death how +little acquirements and culture weigh beside sterling personal +character. While her simple sorrow for his loss took a softer edge with +the lapse of the autumn and winter seasons, her self-reproach at having +had a possible hand in causing it knew little abatement. + +Little occurred at Hintock during these months of the fall and decay of +the leaf. Discussion of the almost contemporaneous death of Mrs. +Charmond abroad had waxed and waned. Fitzpiers had had a marvellous +escape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, through +the accident of their having parted just before under the influence of +Marty South’s letter—the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature. + +Her body was not brought home. It seemed to accord well with the fitful +fever of that impassioned woman’s life that she should not have found a +native grave. She had enjoyed but a life-interest in the estate, which, +after her death, passed to a relative of her husband’s—one who knew not +Felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to blot out every vestige of +her. + +On a certain day in February—the cheerful day of St. Valentine, in +fact—a letter reached Mrs. Fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised +her for that particular day a long time before. + +It announced that Fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he +had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical +man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set +them right. He had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of +tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a +substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget +the past and bring herself to join him. + +There the practical part ended; he then went on— + +“My last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear Grace +and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. You may be +absolutely indifferent to what I say, but let me say it: I have never +loved any woman alive or dead as I love, respect, and honor you at this +present moment. What you told me in the pride and haughtiness of your +heart I never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; but +even if I had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you. +Is there any use in telling you—no, there is not—that I dream of your +ripe lips more frequently than I say my prayers; that the old familiar +rustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me? +If you could condescend even only to see me again you would be +breathing life into a corpse. My pure, pure Grace, modest as a +turtledove, how came I ever to possess you? For the sake of being +present in your mind on this lovers’ day, I think I would almost rather +have you hate me a little than not think of me at all. You may call my +fancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that ‘nature is one +in love, and where ’tis fine it sends some instance of itself.’ I will +not intrude upon you further now. Make me a little bit happy by sending +back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to a short +interview. I will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance, if you +will only afford me this slight means of making a few explanations, and +of putting my position before you. Believe me, in spite of all you may +do or feel, + + +Your lover always (once your husband), + +“E.F.” + + +It was, oddly enough, the first occasion, or nearly the first on which +Grace had ever received a love-letter from him, his courtship having +taken place under conditions which rendered letter-writing unnecessary. +Its perusal, therefore, had a certain novelty for her. She thought +that, upon the whole, he wrote love-letters very well. But the chief +rational interest of the letter to the reflective Grace lay in the +chance that such a meeting as he proposed would afford her of setting +her doubts at rest, one way or the other, on her actual share in +Winterborne’s death. The relief of consulting a skilled mind, the one +professional man who had seen Giles at that time, would be immense. As +for that statement that she had uttered in her disdainful grief, which +at the time she had regarded as her triumph, she was quite prepared to +admit to him that his belief was the true one; for in wronging herself +as she did when she made it, she had done what to her was a far more +serious thing, wronged Winterborne’s memory. + +Without consulting her father, or any one in the house or out of it, +Grace replied to the letter. She agreed to meet Fitzpiers on two +conditions, of which the first was that the place of meeting should be +the top of Rubdown Hill, the second that he would not object to Marty +South accompanying her. + +Whatever part, much or little, there may have been in Fitzpiers’s +so-called valentine to his wife, he felt a delight as of the bursting +of spring when her brief reply came. It was one of the few pleasures +that he had experienced of late years at all resembling those of his +early youth. He promptly replied that he accepted the conditions, and +named the day and hour at which he would be on the spot she mentioned. + +A few minutes before three on the appointed day found him climbing the +well-known hill, which had been the axis of so many critical movements +in their lives during his residence at Hintock. + +The sight of each homely and well-remembered object swelled the regret +that seldom left him now. Whatever paths might lie open to his future, +the soothing shades of Hintock were forbidden him forever as a +permanent dwelling-place. + +He longed for the society of Grace. But to lay offerings on her +slighted altar was his first aim, and until her propitiation was +complete he would constrain her in no way to return to him. The least +reparation that he could make, in a case where he would gladly have +made much, would be to let her feel herself absolutely free to choose +between living with him and without him. + +Moreover, a subtlist in emotions, he cultivated as under glasses +strange and mournful pleasures that he would not willingly let die just +at present. To show any forwardness in suggesting a _modus vivendi_ to +Grace would be to put an end to these exotics. To be the vassal of her +sweet will for a time, he demanded no more, and found solace in the +contemplation of the soft miseries she caused him. + +Approaching the hill-top with a mind strung to these notions, Fitzpiers +discerned a gay procession of people coming over the crest, and was not +long in perceiving it to be a wedding-party. + +Though the wind was keen the women were in light attire, and the +flowered waistcoats of the men had a pleasing vividness of pattern. +Each of the gentler ones clung to the arm of her partner so tightly as +to have with him one step, rise, swing, gait, almost one centre of +gravity. In the buxom bride Fitzpiers recognized no other than Suke +Damson, who in her light gown looked a giantess; the small husband +beside her he saw to be Tim Tangs. + +Fitzpiers could not escape, for they had seen him; though of all the +beauties of the world whom he did not wish to meet Suke was the chief. +But he put the best face on the matter that he could and came on, the +approaching company evidently discussing him and his separation from +Mrs. Fitzpiers. As the couples closed upon him he expressed his +congratulations. + +“We be just walking round the parishes to show ourselves a bit,” said +Tim. “First we het across to Delborough, then athwart to here, and from +here we go to Rubdown and Millshot, and then round by the cross-roads +home. Home says I, but it won’t be that long! We be off next month.” + +“Indeed. Where to?” + +Tim informed him that they were going to New Zealand. Not but that he +would have been contented with Hintock, but his wife was ambitious and +wanted to leave, so he had given way. + +“Then good-by,” said Fitzpiers; “I may not see you again.” He shook +hands with Tim and turned to the bride. “Good-by, Suke,” he said, +taking her hand also. “I wish you and your husband prosperity in the +country you have chosen.” With this he left them, and hastened on to +his appointment. + +The wedding-party re-formed and resumed march likewise. But in +restoring his arm to Suke, Tim noticed that her full and blooming +countenance had undergone a change. “Holloa! me dear—what’s the +matter?” said Tim. + +“Nothing to speak o’,” said she. But to give the lie to her assertion +she was seized with lachrymose twitches, that soon produced a dribbling +face. + +“How—what the devil’s this about!” exclaimed the bridegroom. + +“She’s a little wee bit overcome, poor dear!” said the first +bridesmaid, unfolding her handkerchief and wiping Suke’s eyes. + +“I never did like parting from people!” said Suke, as soon as she could +speak. + +“Why him in particular?” + +“Well—he’s such a clever doctor, that ’tis a thousand pities we sha’n’t +see him any more! There’ll be no such clever doctor as he in New +Zealand, if I should require one; and the thought o’t got the better of +my feelings!” + +They walked on, but Tim’s face had grown rigid and pale, for he +recalled slight circumstances, disregarded at the time of their +occurrence. The former boisterous laughter of the wedding-party at the +groomsman’s jokes was heard ringing through the woods no more. + +By this time Fitzpiers had advanced on his way to the top of the hill, +where he saw two figures emerging from the bank on the right hand. +These were the expected ones, Grace and Marty South, who had evidently +come there by a short and secret path through the wood. Grace was +muffled up in her winter dress, and he thought that she had never +looked so seductive as at this moment, in the noontide bright but +heatless sun, and the keen wind, and the purplish-gray masses of +brushwood around. + +Fitzpiers continued to regard the nearing picture, till at length their +glances met for a moment, when she demurely sent off hers at a tangent +and gave him the benefit of her three-quarter face, while with +courteous completeness of conduct he lifted his hat in a large arc. +Marty dropped behind; and when Fitzpiers held out his hand, Grace +touched it with her fingers. + +“I have agreed to be here mostly because I wanted to ask you something +important,” said Mrs. Fitzpiers, her intonation modulating in a +direction that she had not quite wished it to take. + +“I am most attentive,” said her husband. “Shall we take to the wood for +privacy?” + +Grace demurred, and Fitzpiers gave in, and they kept the public road. + +At any rate she would take his arm? This also was gravely negatived, +the refusal being audible to Marty. + +“Why not?” he inquired. + +“Oh, Mr. Fitzpiers—how can you ask?” + +“Right, right,” said he, his effusiveness shrivelled up. + +As they walked on she returned to her inquiry. “It is about a matter +that may perhaps be unpleasant to you. But I think I need not consider +that too carefully.” + +“Not at all,” said Fitzpiers, heroically. + +She then took him back to the time of poor Winterborne’s death, and +related the precise circumstances amid which his fatal illness had come +upon him, particularizing the dampness of the shelter to which he had +betaken himself, his concealment from her of the hardships that he was +undergoing, all that he had put up with, all that he had done for her +in his scrupulous considerateness. The retrospect brought her to tears +as she asked him if he thought that the sin of having driven him to his +death was upon her. + +Fitzpiers could hardly help showing his satisfaction at what her +narrative indirectly revealed, the actual harmlessness of an escapade +with her lover, which had at first, by her own showing, looked so +grave, and he did not care to inquire whether that harmlessness had +been the result of aim or of accident. With regard to her question, he +declared that in his judgment no human being could answer it. He +thought that upon the whole the balance of probabilities turned in her +favor. Winterborne’s apparent strength, during the last months of his +life, must have been delusive. It had often occurred that after a first +attack of that insidious disease a person’s apparent recovery was a +physiological mendacity. + +The relief which came to Grace lay almost as much in sharing her +knowledge of the particulars with an intelligent mind as in the +assurances Fitzpiers gave her. “Well, then, to put this case before +you, and obtain your professional opinion, was chiefly why I consented +to come here to-day,” said she, when he had reached the aforesaid +conclusion. + +“For no other reason at all?” he asked, ruefully. + +“It was nearly the whole.” + +They stood and looked over a gate at twenty or thirty starlings feeding +in the grass, and he started the talk again by saying, in a low voice, +“And yet I love you more than ever I loved you in my life.” + +Grace did not move her eyes from the birds, and folded her delicate +lips as if to keep them in subjection. + +“It is a different kind of love altogether,” said he. “Less passionate; +more profound. It has nothing to do with the material conditions of the +object at all; much to do with her character and goodness, as revealed +by closer observation. ‘Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge +with dearer love.’” + +“That’s out of _Measure for Measure_,” said she, slyly. + +“Oh yes—I meant it as a citation,” blandly replied Fitzpiers. “Well, +then, why not give me a very little bit of your heart again?” + +The crash of a felled tree in the remote depths of the wood recalled +the past at that moment, and all the homely faithfulness of +Winterborne. “Don’t ask it! My heart is in the grave with Giles,” she +replied, stanchly. + +“Mine is with you—in no less deep a grave, I fear, according to that.” + +“I am very sorry; but it cannot be helped.” + +“How can you be sorry for me, when you wilfully keep open the grave?” + +“Oh no—that’s not so,” returned Grace, quickly, and moved to go away +from him. + +“But, dearest Grace,” said he, “you have condescended to come; and I +thought from it that perhaps when I had passed through a long state of +probation you would be generous. But if there can be no hope of our +getting completely reconciled, treat me gently—wretch though I am.” + +“I did not say you were a wretch, nor have I ever said so.” + +“But you have such a contemptuous way of looking at me that I fear you +think so.” + +Grace’s heart struggled between the wish not to be harsh and the fear +that she might mislead him. “I cannot look contemptuous unless I feel +contempt,” she said, evasively. “And all I feel is lovelessness.” + +“I have been very bad, I know,” he returned. “But unless you can really +love me again, Grace, I would rather go away from you forever. I don’t +want you to receive me again for duty’s sake, or anything of that sort. +If I had not cared more for your affection and forgiveness than my own +personal comfort, I should never have come back here. I could have +obtained a practice at a distance, and have lived my own life without +coldness or reproach. But I have chosen to return to the one spot on +earth where my name is tarnished—to enter the house of a man from whom +I have had worse treatment than from any other man alive—all for you!” + +This was undeniably true, and it had its weight with Grace, who began +to look as if she thought she had been shockingly severe. + +“Before you go,” he continued, “I want to know your pleasure about +me—what you wish me to do, or not to do.” + +“You are independent of me, and it seems a mockery to ask that. Far be +it from me to advise. But I will think it over. I rather need advice +myself than stand in a position to give it.” + +“_You_ don’t need advice, wisest, dearest woman that ever lived. If you +did—” + +“Would you give it to me?” + +“Would you act upon what I gave?” + +“That’s not a fair inquiry,” said she, smiling despite her gravity. “I +don’t mind hearing it—what you do really think the most correct and +proper course for me.” + +“It is so easy for me to say, and yet I dare not, for it would be +provoking you to remonstrances.” + +Knowing, of course, what the advice would be, she did not press him +further, and was about to beckon Marty forward and leave him, when he +interrupted her with, “Oh, one moment, dear Grace—you will meet me +again?” + +She eventually agreed to see him that day fortnight. Fitzpiers +expostulated at the interval, but the half-alarmed earnestness with +which she entreated him not to come sooner made him say hastily that he +submitted to her will—that he would regard her as a friend only, +anxious for his reform and well-being, till such time as she might +allow him to exceed that privilege. + +All this was to assure her; it was only too clear that he had not won +her confidence yet. It amazed Fitzpiers, and overthrew all his +deductions from previous experience, to find that this girl, though she +had been married to him, could yet be so coy. Notwithstanding a certain +fascination that it carried with it, his reflections were sombre as he +went homeward; he saw how deep had been his offence to produce so great +a wariness in a gentle and once unsuspicious soul. + +He was himself too fastidious to care to coerce her. To be an object of +misgiving or dislike to a woman who shared his home was what he could +not endure the thought of. Life as it stood was more tolerable. + +When he was gone, Marty joined Mrs. Fitzpiers. She would fain have +consulted Marty on the question of Platonic relations with her former +husband, as she preferred to regard him. But Marty showed no great +interest in their affairs, so Grace said nothing. They came onward, and +saw Melbury standing at the scene of the felling which had been audible +to them, when, telling Marty that she wished her meeting with Mr. +Fitzpiers to be kept private, she left the girl to join her father. At +any rate, she would consult him on the expediency of occasionally +seeing her husband. + +Her father was cheerful, and walked by her side as he had done in +earlier days. “I was thinking of you when you came up,” he said. “I +have considered that what has happened is for the best. Since your +husband is gone away, and seems not to wish to trouble you, why, let +him go, and drop out of your life. Many women are worse off. You can +live here comfortably enough, and he can emigrate, or do what he likes +for his good. I wouldn’t mind sending him the further sum of money he +might naturally expect to come to him, so that you may not be bothered +with him any more. He could hardly have gone on living here without +speaking to me, or meeting me; and that would have been very unpleasant +on both sides.” + +These remarks checked her intention. There was a sense of weakness in +following them by saying that she had just met her husband by +appointment. “Then you would advise me not to communicate with him?” +she observed. + +“I shall never advise ye again. You are your own mistress—do as you +like. But my opinion is that if you don’t live with him, you had better +live without him, and not go shilly-shallying and playing bopeep. You +sent him away; and now he’s gone. Very well; trouble him no more.” + +Grace felt a guiltiness—she hardly knew why—and made no confession. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + +The woods were uninteresting, and Grace stayed in-doors a great deal. +She became quite a student, reading more than she had done since her +marriage But her seclusion was always broken for the periodical visit +to Winterborne’s grave with Marty, which was kept up with pious +strictness, for the purpose of putting snow-drops, primroses, and other +vernal flowers thereon as they came. + +One afternoon at sunset she was standing just outside her father’s +garden, which, like the rest of the Hintock enclosures, abutted into +the wood. A slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way to +either of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. Grace was +just about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached along +the path, and held up his hand to detain her. It was her husband. + +“I am delighted,” he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed no +reason to doubt his words. “I saw you some way off—I was afraid you +would go in before I could reach you.” + +“It is a week before the time,” said she, reproachfully. “I said a +fortnight from the last meeting.” + +“My dear, you don’t suppose I could wait a fortnight without trying to +get a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! Would it +make you angry to know that I have been along this path at dusk three +or four times since our last meeting? Well, how are you?” + +She did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it a +moment longer than mere formality required, she made it smaller, so +that it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look which +always followed his attempts in this direction. He saw that she was not +yet out of the elusive mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and he +was correspondingly careful to tranquillize her. + +His assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. “I had no idea you +came so often,” she said. “How far do you come from?” + +“From Exbury. I always walk from Sherton-Abbas, for if I hire, people +will know that I come; and my success with you so far has not been +great enough to justify such overtness. Now, my dear one—as I _must_ +call you—I put it to you: will you see me a little oftener as the +spring advances?” + +Grace lapsed into unwonted sedateness, and avoiding the question, said, +“I wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give up those +strange studies that used to distract you so much. I am sure you would +get on.” + +“It is the very thing I am doing. I was going to ask you to burn—or, at +least, get rid of—all my philosophical literature. It is in the +bookcases in your rooms. The fact is, I never cared much for abstruse +studies.” + +“I am so glad to hear you say that. And those other books—those piles +of old plays—what good are they to a medical man?” + +“None whatever!” he replied, cheerfully. “Sell them at Sherton for what +they will fetch.” + +“And those dreadful old French romances, with their horrid spellings of +‘filz’ and ‘ung’ and ‘ilz’ and ‘mary’ and ‘ma foy?’” + +“You haven’t been reading them, Grace?” + +“Oh no—I just looked into them, that was all.” + +“Make a bonfire of ’em directly you get home. I meant to do it myself. +I can’t think what possessed me ever to collect them. I have only a few +professional hand-books now, and am quite a practical man. I am in +hopes of having some good news to tell you soon, and then do you think +you could—come to me again?” + +“I would rather you did not press me on that just now,” she replied, +with some feeling. “You have said you mean to lead a new, useful, +effectual life; but I should like to see you put it in practice for a +little while before you address that query to me. Besides—I could not +live with you.” + +“Why not?” + +Grace was silent a few instants. “I go with Marty to Giles’s grave. We +swore we would show him that devotion. And I mean to keep it up.” + +“Well, I wouldn’t mind that at all. I have no right to expect anything +else, and I will not wish you to keep away. I liked the man as well as +any I ever knew. In short, I would accompany you a part of the way to +the place, and smoke a cigar on the stile while I waited till you came +back.” + +“Then you haven’t given up smoking?” + +“Well—ahem—no. I have thought of doing so, but—” + +His extreme complacence had rather disconcerted Grace, and the question +about smoking had been to effect a diversion. Presently she said, +firmly, and with a moisture in her eye that he could not see, as her +mind returned to poor Giles’s “frustrate ghost,” “I don’t like you—to +speak lightly on that subject, if you did speak lightly. To be frank +with you—quite frank—I think of him as my betrothed lover still. I +cannot help it. So that it would be wrong for me to join you.” + +Fitzpiers was now uneasy. “You say your betrothed lover still,” he +rejoined. “When, then, were you betrothed to him, or engaged, as we +common people say?” + +“When you were away.” + +“How could that be?” + +Grace would have avoided this; but her natural candor led her on. “It +was when I was under the impression that my marriage with you was about +to be annulled, and that he could then marry me. So I encouraged him to +love me.” + +Fitzpiers winced visibly; and yet, upon the whole, she was right in +telling it. Indeed, his perception that she was right in her absolute +sincerity kept up his affectionate admiration for her under the pain of +the rebuff. Time had been when the avowal that Grace had deliberately +taken steps to replace him would have brought him no sorrow. But she so +far dominated him now that he could not bear to hear her words, +although the object of her high regard was no more. + +“It is rough upon me—that!” he said, bitterly. “Oh, Grace—I did not +know you—tried to get rid of me! I suppose it is of no use, but I ask, +cannot you hope to—find a little love in your heart for me again?” + +“If I could I would oblige you; but I fear I cannot!” she replied, with +illogical ruefulness. “And I don’t see why you should mind my having +had one lover besides yourself in my life, when you have had so many.” + +“But I can tell you honestly that I love you better than all of them +put together, and that’s what you will not tell me!” + +“I am sorry; but I fear I cannot,” she said, sighing again. + +“I wonder if you ever will?” He looked musingly into her indistinct +face, as if he would read the future there. “Now have pity, and tell +me: will you try?” + +“To love you again?” + +“Yes; if you can.” + +“I don’t know how to reply,” she answered, her embarrassment proving +her truth. “Will you promise to leave me quite free as to seeing you or +not seeing you?” + +“Certainly. Have I given any ground for you to doubt my first promise +in that respect?” + +She was obliged to admit that he had not. + +“Then I think that you might get your heart out of that grave,” said +he, with playful sadness. “It has been there a long time.” + +She faintly shook her head, but said, “I’ll try to think of you more—if +I can.” + +With this Fitzpiers was compelled to be satisfied, and he asked her +when she would meet him again. + +“As we arranged—in a fortnight.” + +“If it must be a fortnight it must!” + +“This time at least. I’ll consider by the day I see you again if I can +shorten the interval.” + +“Well, be that as it may, I shall come at least twice a week to look at +your window.” + +“You must do as you like about that. Good-night.” + +“Say ‘husband.’” + +She seemed almost inclined to give him the word; but exclaiming, “No, +no; I cannot,” slipped through the garden-hedge and disappeared. + +Fitzpiers did not exaggerate when he told her that he should haunt the +precincts of the dwelling. But his persistence in this course did not +result in his seeing her much oftener than at the fortnightly interval +which she had herself marked out as proper. At these times, however, +she punctually appeared, and as the spring wore on the meetings were +kept up, though their character changed but little with the increase in +their number. + +The small garden of the cottage occupied by the Tangs family—father, +son, and now son’s wife—aligned with the larger one of the +timber-dealer at its upper end; and when young Tim, after leaving work +at Melbury’s, stood at dusk in the little bower at the corner of his +enclosure to smoke a pipe, he frequently observed the surgeon pass +along the outside track before-mentioned. Fitzpiers always walked +loiteringly, pensively, looking with a sharp eye into the gardens one +after another as he proceeded; for Fitzpiers did not wish to leave the +now absorbing spot too quickly, after travelling so far to reach it; +hoping always for a glimpse of her whom he passionately desired to take +to his arms anew. + +Now Tim began to be struck with these loitering progresses along the +garden boundaries in the gloaming, and wondered what they boded. It +was, naturally, quite out of his power to divine the singular, +sentimental revival in Fitzpiers’s heart; the fineness of tissue which +could take a deep, emotional—almost also an artistic—pleasure in being +the yearning _innamorato_ of a woman he once had deserted, would have +seemed an absurdity to the young sawyer. Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpiers were +separated; therefore the question of affection as between them was +settled. But his Suke had, since that meeting on their marriage-day, +repentantly admitted, to the urgency of his questioning, a good deal +concerning her past levities. Putting all things together, he could +hardly avoid connecting Fitzpiers’s mysterious visits to this spot with +Suke’s residence under his roof. But he made himself fairly easy: the +vessel in which they were about to emigrate sailed that month; and then +Suke would be out of Fitzpiers’s way forever. + +The interval at last expired, and the eve of their departure arrived. +They were pausing in the room of the cottage allotted to them by Tim’s +father, after a busy day of preparation, which left them weary. In a +corner stood their boxes, crammed and corded, their large case for the +hold having already been sent away. The firelight shone upon Suke’s +fine face and form as she stood looking into it, and upon the face of +Tim seated in a corner, and upon the walls of his father’s house, which +he was beholding that night almost for the last time. + +Tim Tangs was not happy. This scheme of emigration was dividing him +from his father—for old Tangs would on no account leave Hintock—and had +it not been for Suke’s reputation and his own dignity, Tim would at the +last moment have abandoned the project. As he sat in the back part of +the room he regarded her moodily, and the fire and the boxes. One thing +he had particularly noticed this evening—she was very restless; fitful +in her actions, unable to remain seated, and in a marked degree +depressed. + +“Sorry that you be going, after all, Suke?” he said. + +She sighed involuntarily. “I don’t know but that I be,” she answered. +“’Tis natural, isn’t it, when one is going away?” + +“But you wasn’t born here as I was.” + +“No.” + +“There’s folk left behind that you’d fain have with ’ee, I reckon?” + +“Why do you think that?” + +“I’ve seen things and I’ve heard things; and, Suke, I say ’twill be a +good move for me to get ’ee away. I don’t mind his leavings abroad, but +I do mind ’em at home.” + +Suke’s face was not changed from its aspect of listless indifference by +the words. She answered nothing; and shortly after he went out for his +customary pipe of tobacco at the top of the garden. + +The restlessness of Suke had indeed owed its presence to the gentleman +of Tim’s suspicions, but in a different—and it must be added in justice +to her—more innocent sense than he supposed, judging from former +doings. She had accidentally discovered that Fitzpiers was in the habit +of coming secretly once or twice a week to Hintock, and knew that this +evening was a favorite one of the seven for his journey. As she was +going next day to leave the country, Suke thought there could be no +great harm in giving way to a little sentimentality by obtaining a +glimpse of him quite unknown to himself or to anybody, and thus taking +a silent last farewell. Aware that Fitzpiers’s time for passing was at +hand she thus betrayed her feeling. No sooner, therefore, had Tim left +the room than she let herself noiselessly out of the house, and +hastened to the corner of the garden, whence she could witness the +surgeon’s transit across the scene—if he had not already gone by. + +Her light cotton dress was visible to Tim lounging in the arbor of the +opposite corner, though he was hidden from her. He saw her stealthily +climb into the hedge, and so ensconce herself there that nobody could +have the least doubt her purpose was to watch unseen for a passer-by. + +He went across to the spot and stood behind her. Suke started, having +in her blundering way forgotten that he might be near. She at once +descended from the hedge. + +“So he’s coming to-night,” said Tim, laconically. “And we be always +anxious to see our dears.” + +“He _is_ coming to-night,” she replied, with defiance. “And we _be_ +anxious for our dears.” + +“Then will you step in-doors, where your dear will soon jine ’ee? We’ve +to mouster by half-past three to-morrow, and if we don’t get to bed by +eight at latest our faces will be as long as clock-cases all day.” + +She hesitated for a minute, but ultimately obeyed, going slowly down +the garden to the house, where he heard the door-latch click behind +her. + +Tim was incensed beyond measure. His marriage had so far been a total +failure, a source of bitter regret; and the only course for improving +his case, that of leaving the country, was a sorry, and possibly might +not be a very effectual one. Do what he would, his domestic sky was +likely to be overcast to the end of the day. Thus he brooded, and his +resentment gathered force. He craved a means of striking one blow back +at the cause of his cheerless plight, while he was still on the scene +of his discomfiture. For some minutes no method suggested itself, and +then he had an idea. + +Coming to a sudden resolution, he hastened along the garden, and +entered the one attached to the next cottage, which had formerly been +the dwelling of a game-keeper. Tim descended the path to the back of +the house, where only an old woman lived at present, and reaching the +wall he stopped. Owing to the slope of the ground the roof-eaves of the +linhay were here within touch, and he thrust his arm up under them, +feeling about in the space on the top of the wall-plate. + +“Ah, I thought my memory didn’t deceive me!” he lipped silently. + +With some exertion he drew down a cobwebbed object curiously framed in +iron, which clanked as he moved it. It was about three feet in length +and half as wide. Tim contemplated it as well as he could in the dying +light of day, and raked off the cobwebs with his hand. + +“That will spoil his pretty shins for’n, I reckon!” he said. + +It was a man-trap. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + +Were the inventors of automatic machines to be ranged according to the +excellence of their devices for producing sound artistic torture, the +creator of the man-trap would occupy a very respectable if not a very +high place. + +It should rather, however, be said, the inventor of the particular form +of man-trap of which this found in the keeper’s out-house was a +specimen. For there were other shapes and other sizes, instruments +which, if placed in a row beside one of the type disinterred by Tim, +would have worn the subordinate aspect of the bears, wild boars, or +wolves in a travelling menagerie, as compared with the leading lion or +tiger. In short, though many varieties had been in use during those +centuries which we are accustomed to look back upon as the true and +only period of merry England—in the rural districts more especially—and +onward down to the third decade of the nineteenth century, this model +had borne the palm, and had been most usually followed when the +orchards and estates required new ones. + +There had been the toothless variety used by the softer-hearted +landlords—quite contemptible in their clemency. The jaws of these +resembled the jaws of an old woman to whom time has left nothing but +gums. There were also the intermediate or half-toothed sorts, probably +devised by the middle-natured squires, or those under the influence of +their wives: two inches of mercy, two inches of cruelty, two inches of +mere nip, two inches of probe, and so on, through the whole extent of +the jaws. There were also, as a class apart, the bruisers, which did +not lacerate the flesh, but only crushed the bone. + +The sight of one of these gins when set produced a vivid impression +that it was endowed with life. It exhibited the combined aspects of a +shark, a crocodile, and a scorpion. Each tooth was in the form of a +tapering spine, two and a quarter inches long, which, when the jaws +were closed, stood in alternation from this side and from that. When +they were open, the two halves formed a complete circle between two and +three feet in diameter, the plate or treading-place in the midst being +about a foot square, while from beneath extended in opposite directions +the soul of the apparatus, the pair of springs, each one being of a +stiffness to render necessary a lever or the whole weight of the body +when forcing it down. + +There were men at this time still living at Hintock who remembered when +the gin and others like it were in use. Tim Tangs’s great-uncle had +endured a night of six hours in this very trap, which lamed him for +life. Once a keeper of Hintock woods set it on the track of a poacher, +and afterwards, coming back that way, forgetful of what he had done, +walked into it himself. The wound brought on lockjaw, of which he died. +This event occurred during the thirties, and by the year 1840 the use +of such implements was well-nigh discontinued in the neighborhood. But +being made entirely of iron, they by no means disappeared, and in +almost every village one could be found in some nook or corner as +readily as this was found by Tim. It had, indeed, been a fearful +amusement of Tim and other Hintock lads—especially those who had a dim +sense of becoming renowned poachers when they reached their prime—to +drag out this trap from its hiding, set it, and throw it with billets +of wood, which were penetrated by the teeth to the depth of near an +inch. + +As soon as he had examined the trap, and found that the hinges and +springs were still perfect, he shouldered it without more ado, and +returned with his burden to his own garden, passing on through the +hedge to the path immediately outside the boundary. Here, by the help +of a stout stake, he set the trap, and laid it carefully behind a bush +while he went forward to reconnoitre. As has been stated, nobody passed +this way for days together sometimes; but there was just a possibility +that some other pedestrian than the one in request might arrive, and it +behooved Tim to be careful as to the identity of his victim. + +Going about a hundred yards along the rising ground to the right, he +reached a ridge whereon a large and thick holly grew. Beyond this for +some distance the wood was more open, and the course which Fitzpiers +must pursue to reach the point, if he came to-night, was visible a long +way forward. + +For some time there was no sign of him or of anybody. Then there shaped +itself a spot out of the dim mid-distance, between the masses of +brushwood on either hand. And it enlarged, and Tim could hear the +brushing of feet over the tufts of sour-grass. The airy gait revealed +Fitzpiers even before his exact outline could be seen. + +Tim Tangs turned about, and ran down the opposite side of the hill, +till he was again at the head of his own garden. It was the work of a +few moments to drag out the man-trap, very gently—that the plate might +not be disturbed sufficiently to throw it—to a space between a pair of +young oaks which, rooted in contiguity, grew apart upward, forming a +V-shaped opening between; and, being backed up by bushes, left this as +the only course for a foot-passenger. In it he laid the trap with the +same gentleness of handling, locked the chain round one of the trees, +and finally slid back the guard which was placed to keep the gin from +accidentally catching the arms of him who set it, or, to use the local +and better word, “toiled” it. + +Having completed these arrangements, Tim sprang through the adjoining +hedge of his father’s garden, ran down the path, and softly entered the +house. + +Obedient to his order, Suke had gone to bed; and as soon as he had +bolted the door, Tim unlaced and kicked off his boots at the foot of +the stairs, and retired likewise, without lighting a candle. His object +seemed to be to undress as soon as possible. Before, however, he had +completed the operation, a long cry resounded without—penetrating, but +indescribable. + +“What’s that?” said Suke, starting up in bed. + +“Sounds as if somebody had caught a hare in his gin.” + +“Oh no,” said she. “It was not a hare, ’twas louder. Hark!” + +“Do ’ee get to sleep,” said Tim. “How be you going to wake at half-past +three else?” + +She lay down and was silent. Tim stealthily opened the window and +listened. Above the low harmonies produced by the instrumentation of +the various species of trees around the premises he could hear the +twitching of a chain from the spot whereon he had set the man-trap. But +further human sound there was none. + +Tim was puzzled. In the haste of his project he had not calculated upon +a cry; but if one, why not more? He soon ceased to essay an answer, for +Hintock was dead to him already. In half a dozen hours he would be out +of its precincts for life, on his way to the antipodes. He closed the +window and lay down. + +The hour which had brought these movements of Tim to birth had been +operating actively elsewhere. Awaiting in her father’s house the minute +of her appointment with her husband, Grace Fitzpiers deliberated on +many things. Should she inform her father before going out that the +estrangement of herself and Edgar was not so complete as he had +imagined, and deemed desirable for her happiness? If she did so she +must in some measure become the apologist of her husband, and she was +not prepared to go so far. + +As for him, he kept her in a mood of considerate gravity. He certainly +had changed. He had at his worst times always been gentle in his manner +towards her. Could it be that she might make of him a true and worthy +husband yet? She had married him; there was no getting over that; and +ought she any longer to keep him at a distance? His suave deference to +her lightest whim on the question of his comings and goings, when as +her lawful husband he might show a little independence, was a trait in +his character as unexpected as it was engaging. If she had been his +empress, and he her thrall, he could not have exhibited a more +sensitive care to avoid intruding upon her against her will. + +Impelled by a remembrance she took down a prayer-book and turned to the +marriage-service. Reading it slowly through, she became quite appalled +at her recent off-handedness, when she rediscovered what awfully solemn +promises she had made him at those chancel steps not so very long ago. + +She became lost in long ponderings on how far a person’s conscience +might be bound by vows made without at the time a full recognition of +their force. That particular sentence, beginning “Whom God hath joined +together,” was a staggerer for a gentlewoman of strong devotional +sentiment. She wondered whether God really did join them together. +Before she had done deliberating the time of her engagement drew near, +and she went out of the house almost at the moment that Tim Tangs +retired to his own. + +The position of things at that critical juncture was briefly as +follows. + +Two hundred yards to the right of the upper end of Tangs’s garden +Fitzpiers was still advancing, having now nearly reached the summit of +the wood-clothed ridge, the path being the actual one which further on +passed between the two young oaks. Thus far it was according to Tim’s +conjecture. But about two hundred yards to the left, or rather less, +was arising a condition which he had not divined, the emergence of +Grace as aforesaid from the upper corner of her father’s garden, with +the view of meeting Tim’s intended victim. Midway between husband and +wife was the diabolical trap, silent, open, ready. + +Fitzpiers’s walk that night had been cheerful, for he was convinced +that the slow and gentle method he had adopted was promising success. +The very restraint that he was obliged to exercise upon himself, so as +not to kill the delicate bud of returning confidence, fed his flame. He +walked so much more rapidly than Grace that, if they continued +advancing as they had begun, he would reach the trap a good half-minute +before she could reach the same spot. + +But here a new circumstance came in; to escape the unpleasantness of +being watched or listened to by lurkers—naturally curious by reason of +their strained relations—they had arranged that their meeting for +to-night should be at the holm-tree on the ridge above named. So soon, +accordingly, as Fitzpiers reached the tree he stood still to await her. + +He had not paused under the prickly foliage more than two minutes when +he thought he heard a scream from the other side of the ridge. +Fitzpiers wondered what it could mean; but such wind as there was just +now blew in an adverse direction, and his mood was light. He set down +the origin of the sound to one of the superstitious freaks or +frolicsome scrimmages between sweethearts that still survived in +Hintock from old-English times; and waited on where he stood till ten +minutes had passed. Feeling then a little uneasy, his mind reverted to +the scream; and he went forward over the summit and down the embowered +incline, till he reached the pair of sister oaks with the narrow +opening between them. + +Fitzpiers stumbled and all but fell. Stretching down his hand to +ascertain the obstruction, it came in contact with a confused mass of +silken drapery and iron-work that conveyed absolutely no explanatory +idea to his mind at all. It was but the work of a moment to strike a +match; and then he saw a sight which congealed his blood. + +The man-trap was thrown; and between its jaws was part of a woman’s +clothing—a patterned silk skirt—gripped with such violence that the +iron teeth had passed through it, skewering its tissue in a score of +places. He immediately recognized the skirt as that of one of his +wife’s gowns—the gown that she had worn when she met him on the very +last occasion. + +Fitzpiers had often studied the effect of these instruments when +examining the collection at Hintock House, and the conception instantly +flashed through him that Grace had been caught, taken out mangled by +some chance passer, and carried home, some of her clothes being left +behind in the difficulty of getting her free. The shock of this +conviction, striking into the very current of high hope, was so great +that he cried out like one in corporal agony, and in his misery bowed +himself down to the ground. + +Of all the degrees and qualities of punishment that Fitzpiers had +undergone since his sins against Grace first began, not any even +approximated in intensity to this. + +“Oh, my own—my darling! Oh, cruel Heaven—it is too much, this!” he +cried, writhing and rocking himself over the sorry accessories of her +he deplored. + +The voice of his distress was sufficiently loud to be audible to any +one who might have been there to hear it; and one there was. Right and +left of the narrow pass between the oaks were dense bushes; and now +from behind these a female figure glided, whose appearance even in the +gloom was, though graceful in outline, noticeably strange. + +She was in white up to the waist, and figured above. She was, in short, +Grace, his wife, lacking the portion of her dress which the gin +retained. + +“Don’t be grieved about me—don’t, dear Edgar!” she exclaimed, rushing +up and bending over him. “I am not hurt a bit! I was coming on to find +you after I had released myself, but I heard footsteps; and I hid away, +because I was without some of my clothing, and I did not know who the +person might be.” + +Fitzpiers had sprung to his feet, and his next act was no less +unpremeditated by him than it was irresistible by her, and would have +been so by any woman not of Amazonian strength. He clasped his arms +completely round, pressed her to his breast, and kissed her +passionately. + +“You are not dead!—you are not hurt! Thank God—thank God!” he said, +almost sobbing in his delight and relief from the horror of his +apprehension. “Grace, my wife, my love, how is this—what has happened?” + +“I was coming on to you,” she said as distinctly as she could in the +half-smothered state of her face against his. “I was trying to be as +punctual as possible, and as I had started a minute late I ran along +the path very swiftly—fortunately for myself. Just when I had passed +between these trees I felt something clutch at my dress from behind +with a noise, and the next moment I was pulled backward by it, and fell +to the ground. I screamed with terror, thinking it was a man lying down +there to murder me, but the next moment I discovered it was iron, and +that my clothes were caught in a trap. I pulled this way and that, but +the thing would not let go, drag it as I would, and I did not know what +to do. I did not want to alarm my father or anybody, as I wished nobody +to know of these meetings with you; so I could think of no other plan +than slipping off my skirt, meaning to run on and tell you what a +strange accident had happened to me. But when I had just freed myself +by leaving the dress behind, I heard steps, and not being sure it was +you, I did not like to be seen in such a pickle, so I hid away.” + +“It was only your speed that saved you! One or both of your legs would +have been broken if you had come at ordinary walking pace.” + +“Or yours, if you had got here first,” said she, beginning to realize +the whole ghastliness of the possibility. “Oh, Edgar, there has been an +Eye watching over us to-night, and we should be thankful indeed!” + +He continued to press his face to hers. “You are mine—mine again now.” + +She gently owned that she supposed she was. “I heard what you said when +you thought I was injured,” she went on, shyly, “and I know that a man +who could suffer as you were suffering must have a tender regard for +me. But how does this awful thing come here?” + +“I suppose it has something to do with poachers.” Fitzpiers was still +so shaken by the sense of her danger that he was obliged to sit awhile, +and it was not until Grace said, “If I could only get my skirt out +nobody would know anything about it,” that he bestirred himself. + +By their united efforts, each standing on one of the springs of the +trap, they pressed them down sufficiently to insert across the jaws a +billet which they dragged from a faggot near at hand; and it was then +possible to extract the silk mouthful from the monster’s bite, creased +and pierced with many holes, but not torn. Fitzpiers assisted her to +put it on again; and when her customary contours were thus restored +they walked on together, Grace taking his arm, till he effected an +improvement by clasping it round her waist. + +The ice having been broken in this unexpected manner, she made no +further attempt at reserve. “I would ask you to come into the house,” +she said, “but my meetings with you have been kept secret from my +father, and I should like to prepare him.” + +“Never mind, dearest. I could not very well have accepted the +invitation. I shall never live here again—as much for your sake as for +mine. I have news to tell you on this very point, but my alarm had put +it out of my head. I have bought a practice, or rather a partnership, +in the Midlands, and I must go there in a week to take up permanent +residence. My poor old great-aunt died about eight months ago, and left +me enough to do this. I have taken a little furnished house for a time, +till we can get one of our own.” + +He described the place, and the surroundings, and the view from the +windows, and Grace became much interested. “But why are you not there +now?” she said. + +“Because I cannot tear myself away from here till I have your promise. +Now, darling, you will accompany me there—will you not? To-night has +settled that.” + +Grace’s tremblings had gone off, and she did not say nay. They went on +together. + +The adventure, and the emotions consequent upon the reunion which that +event had forced on, combined to render Grace oblivious of the +direction of their desultory ramble, till she noticed they were in an +encircled glade in the densest part of the wood, whereon the moon, that +had imperceptibly added its rays to the scene, shone almost vertically. +It was an exceptionally soft, balmy evening for the time of year, which +was just that transient period in the May month when beech-trees have +suddenly unfolded large limp young leaves of the softness of +butterflies’ wings. Boughs bearing such leaves hung low around, and +completely enclosed them, so that it was as if they were in a great +green vase, which had moss for its bottom and leaf sides. + +The clouds having been packed in the west that evening so as to retain +the departing glare a long while, the hour had seemed much earlier than +it was. But suddenly the question of time occurred to her. + +“I must go back,” she said; and without further delay they set their +faces towards Hintock. As they walked he examined his watch by the aid +of the now strong moonlight. + +“By the gods, I think I have lost my train!” said Fitzpiers. + +“Dear me—whereabouts are we?” said she. + +“Two miles in the direction of Sherton.” + +“Then do you hasten on, Edgar. I am not in the least afraid. I +recognize now the part of the wood we are in and I can find my way back +quite easily. I’ll tell my father that we have made it up. I wish I had +not kept our meetings so private, for it may vex him a little to know I +have been seeing you. He is getting old and irritable, that was why I +did not. Good-by.” + +“But, as I must stay at the Earl of Wessex to-night, for I cannot +possibly catch the train, I think it would be safer for you to let me +take care of you.” + +“But what will my father think has become of me? He does not know in +the least where I am—he thinks I only went into the garden for a few +minutes.” + +“He will surely guess—somebody has seen me for certain. I’ll go all the +way back with you to-morrow.” + +“But that newly done-up place—the Earl of Wessex!” + +“If you are so very particular about the publicity I will stay at the +Three Tuns.” + +“Oh no—it is not that I am particular—but I haven’t a brush or comb or +anything!” + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + +All the evening Melbury had been coming to his door, saying, “I wonder +where in the world that girl is! Never in all my born days did I know +her bide out like this! She surely said she was going into the garden +to get some parsley.” + +Melbury searched the garden, the parsley-bed, and the orchard, but +could find no trace of her, and then he made inquiries at the cottages +of such of his workmen as had not gone to bed, avoiding Tangs’s because +he knew the young people were to rise early to leave. In these +inquiries one of the men’s wives somewhat incautiously let out the fact +that she had heard a scream in the wood, though from which direction +she could not say. + +This set Melbury’s fears on end. He told the men to light lanterns, and +headed by himself they started, Creedle following at the last moment +with quite a burden of grapnels and ropes, which he could not be +persuaded to leave behind, and the company being joined by the +hollow-turner and the man who kept the cider-house as they went along. + +They explored the precincts of the village, and in a short time lighted +upon the man-trap. Its discovery simply added an item of fact without +helping their conjectures; but Melbury’s indefinite alarm was greatly +increased when, holding a candle to the ground, he saw in the teeth of +the instrument some frayings from Grace’s clothing. No intelligence of +any kind was gained till they met a woodman of Delborough, who said +that he had seen a lady answering to the description her father gave of +Grace, walking through the wood on a gentleman’s arm in the direction +of Sherton. + +“Was he clutching her tight?” said Melbury. + +“Well—rather,” said the man. + +“Did she walk lame?” + +“Well, ’tis true her head hung over towards him a bit.” + +Creedle groaned tragically. + +Melbury, not suspecting the presence of Fitzpiers, coupled this account +with the man-trap and the scream; he could not understand what it all +meant; but the sinister event of the trap made him follow on. +Accordingly, they bore away towards the town, shouting as they went, +and in due course emerged upon the highway. + +Nearing Sherton-Abbas, the previous information was confirmed by other +strollers, though the gentleman’s supporting arm had disappeared from +these later accounts. At last they were so near Sherton that Melbury +informed his faithful followers that he did not wish to drag them +farther at so late an hour, since he could go on alone and inquire if +the woman who had been seen were really Grace. But they would not leave +him alone in his anxiety, and trudged onward till the lamplight from +the town began to illuminate their fronts. At the entrance to the High +Street they got fresh scent of the pursued, but coupled with the new +condition that the lady in the costume described had been going up the +street alone. + +“Faith!—I believe she’s mesmerized, or walking in her sleep,” said +Melbury. + +However, the identity of this woman with Grace was by no means certain; +but they plodded along the street. Percombe, the hair-dresser, who had +despoiled Marty of her tresses, was standing at his door, and they duly +put inquiries to him. + +“Ah—how’s Little Hintock folk by now?” he said, before replying. “Never +have I been over there since one winter night some three year ago—and +then I lost myself finding it. How can ye live in such a one-eyed +place? Great Hintock is bad enough—hut Little Hintock—the bats and owls +would drive me melancholy-mad! It took two days to raise my sperrits to +their true pitch again after that night I went there. Mr. Melbury, sir, +as a man’s that put by money, why not retire and live here, and see +something of the world?” + +The responses at last given by him to their queries guided them to the +building that offered the best accommodation in Sherton—having been +enlarged contemporaneously with the construction of the railway—namely, +the Earl of Wessex Hotel. + +Leaving the others without, Melbury made prompt inquiry here. His alarm +was lessened, though his perplexity was increased, when he received a +brief reply that such a lady was in the house. + +“Do you know if it is my daughter?” asked Melbury. + +The waiter did not. + +“Do you know the lady’s name?” + +Of this, too, the household was ignorant, the hotel having been taken +by brand-new people from a distance. They knew the gentleman very well +by sight, and had not thought it necessary to ask him to enter his +name. + +“Oh, the gentleman appears again now,” said Melbury to himself. “Well, +I want to see the lady,” he declared. + +A message was taken up, and after some delay the shape of Grace +appeared descending round the bend of the stair-case, looking as if she +lived there, but in other respects rather guilty and frightened. + +“Why—what the name—” began her father. “I thought you went out to get +parsley!” + +“Oh, yes—I did—but it is all right,” said Grace, in a flurried whisper. +“I am not alone here. I am here with Edgar. It is entirely owing to an +accident, father.” + +“Edgar! An accident! How does he come here? I thought he was two +hundred mile off.” + +“Yes, so he is—I mean he has got a beautiful practice two hundred miles +off; he has bought it with his own money, some that came to him. But he +travelled here, and I was nearly caught in a man-trap, and that’s how +it is I am here. We were just thinking of sending a messenger to let +you know.” + +Melbury did not seem to be particularly enlightened by this +explanation. + +“You were caught in a man-trap?” + +“Yes; my dress was. That’s how it arose. Edgar is up-stairs in his own +sitting-room,” she went on. “He would not mind seeing you, I am sure.” + +“Oh, faith, I don’t want to see him! I have seen him too often a’ready. +I’ll see him another time, perhaps, if ’tis to oblige ’ee.” + +“He came to see me; he wanted to consult me about this large +partnership I speak of, as it is very promising.” + +“Oh, I am glad to hear it,” said Melbury, dryly. + +A pause ensued, during which the inquiring faces and whity-brown +clothes of Melbury’s companions appeared in the door-way. + +“Then bain’t you coming home with us?” he asked. + +“I—I think not,” said Grace, blushing. + +“H’m—very well—you are your own mistress,” he returned, in tones which +seemed to assert otherwise. “Good-night;” and Melbury retreated towards +the door. + +“Don’t be angry, father,” she said, following him a few steps. “I have +done it for the best.” + +“I am not angry, though it is true I have been a little misled in this. +However, good-night. I must get home along.” + +He left the hotel, not without relief, for to be under the eyes of +strangers while he conversed with his lost child had embarrassed him +much. His search-party, too, had looked awkward there, having rushed to +the task of investigation—some in their shirt sleeves, others in their +leather aprons, and all much stained—just as they had come from their +work of barking, and not in their Sherton marketing attire; while +Creedle, with his ropes and grapnels and air of impending tragedy, had +added melancholy to gawkiness. + +“Now, neighbors,” said Melbury, on joining them, “as it is getting +late, we’ll leg it home again as fast as we can. I ought to tell you +that there has been some mistake—some arrangement entered into between +Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpiers which I didn’t quite understand—an important +practice in the Midland counties has come to him, which made it +necessary for her to join him to-night—so she says. That’s all it +was—and I’m sorry I dragged you out.” + +“Well,” said the hollow-turner, “here be we six mile from home, and +night-time, and not a hoss or four-footed creeping thing to our name. I +say, we’ll have a mossel and a drop o’ summat to strengthen our nerves +afore we vamp all the way back again? My throat’s as dry as a kex. What +d’ye say so’s?” + +They all concurred in the need for this course, and proceeded to the +antique and lampless back street, in which the red curtain of the Three +Tuns was the only radiant object. As soon as they had stumbled down +into the room Melbury ordered them to be served, when they made +themselves comfortable by the long table, and stretched out their legs +upon the herring-boned sand of the floor. Melbury himself, restless as +usual, walked to the door while he waited for them, and looked up and +down the street. + +“I’d gie her a good shaking if she were my maid; pretending to go out +in the garden, and leading folk a twelve-mile traipse that have got to +get up at five o’clock to morrow,” said a bark-ripper; who, not working +regularly for Melbury, could afford to indulge in strong opinions. + +“I don’t speak so warm as that,” said the hollow-turner, “but if ’tis +right for couples to make a country talk about their separating, and +excite the neighbors, and then make fools of ’em like this, why, I +haven’t stood upon one leg for five-and-twenty year.” + +All his listeners knew that when he alluded to his foot-lathe in these +enigmatic terms, the speaker meant to be impressive; and Creedle chimed +in with, “Ah, young women do wax wanton in these days! Why couldn’t she +ha’ bode with her father, and been faithful?” Poor Creedle was thinking +of his old employer. + +“But this deceiving of folks is nothing unusual in matrimony,” said +Farmer Bawtree. “I knowed a man and wife—faith, I don’t mind owning, as +there’s no strangers here, that the pair were my own relations—they’d +be at it that hot one hour that you’d hear the poker and the tongs and +the bellows and the warming-pan flee across the house with the +movements of their vengeance; and the next hour you’d hear ’em singing +‘The Spotted Cow’ together as peaceable as two holy twins; yes—and very +good voices they had, and would strike in like professional +ballet-singers to one another’s support in the high notes.” + +“And I knowed a woman, and the husband o’ her went away for +four-and-twenty year,” said the bark-ripper. “And one night he came +home when she was sitting by the fire, and thereupon he sat down +himself on the other side of the chimney-corner. ‘Well,’ says she, +‘have ye got any news?’ ‘Don’t know as I have,’ says he; ‘have you?’ +‘No,’ says she, ‘except that my daughter by my second husband was +married last month, which was a year after I was made a widow by him.’ +‘Oh! Anything else?’ he says. ‘No,’ says she. And there they sat, one +on each side of that chimney-corner, and were found by their neighbors +sound asleep in their chairs, not having known what to talk about at +all.” + +“Well, I don’t care who the man is,” said Creedle, “they required a +good deal to talk about, and that’s true. It won’t be the same with +these.” + +“No. He is such a projick, you see. And she is a wonderful scholar +too!” + +“What women do know nowadays!” observed the hollow-turner. “You can’t +deceive ’em as you could in my time.” + +“What they knowed then was not small,” said John Upjohn. “Always a good +deal more than the men! Why, when I went courting my wife that is now, +the skilfulness that she would show in keeping me on her pretty side as +she walked was beyond all belief. Perhaps you’ve noticed that she’s got +a pretty side to her face as well as a plain one?” + +“I can’t say I’ve noticed it particular much,” said the hollow-turner, +blandly. + +“Well,” continued Upjohn, not disconcerted, “she has. All women under +the sun be prettier one side than t’other. And, as I was saying, the +pains she would take to make me walk on the pretty side were unending! +I warrant that whether we were going with the sun or against the sun, +uphill or downhill, in wind or in lewth, that wart of hers was always +towards the hedge, and that dimple towards me. There was I, too simple +to see her wheelings and turnings; and she so artful, though two years +younger, that she could lead me with a cotton thread, like a blind ram; +for that was in the third climate of our courtship. No; I don’t think +the women have got cleverer, for they was never otherwise.” + +“How many climates may there be in courtship, Mr. Upjohn?” inquired a +youth—the same who had assisted at Winterborne’s Christmas party. + +“Five—from the coolest to the hottest—leastwise there was five in +mine.” + +“Can ye give us the chronicle of ’em, Mr. Upjohn?” + +“Yes—I could. I could certainly. But ’tis quite unnecessary. They’ll +come to ye by nater, young man, too soon for your good.” + +“At present Mrs. Fitzpiers can lead the doctor as your mis’ess could +lead you,” the hollow-turner remarked. “She’s got him quite tame. But +how long ’twill last I can’t say. I happened to be setting a wire on +the top of my garden one night when he met her on the other side of the +hedge; and the way she queened it, and fenced, and kept that poor +feller at a distance, was enough to freeze yer blood. I should never +have supposed it of such a girl.” + +Melbury now returned to the room, and the men having declared +themselves refreshed, they all started on the homeward journey, which +was by no means cheerless under the rays of the high moon. Having to +walk the whole distance they came by a foot-path rather shorter than +the highway, though difficult except to those who knew the country +well. This brought them by way of Great Hintock; and passing the +church-yard they observed, as they talked, a motionless figure standing +by the gate. + +“I think it was Marty South,” said the hollow-turner, parenthetically. + +“I think ’twas; ’a was always a lonely maid,” said Upjohn. And they +passed on homeward, and thought of the matter no more. + +It was Marty, as they had supposed. That evening had been the +particular one of the week upon which Grace and herself had been +accustomed to privately deposit flowers on Giles’s grave, and this was +the first occasion since his death, eight months earlier, on which +Grace had failed to keep her appointment. Marty had waited in the road +just outside Little Hintock, where her fellow-pilgrim had been wont to +join her, till she was weary; and at last, thinking that Grace had +missed her and gone on alone, she followed the way to Great Hintock, +but saw no Grace in front of her. It got later, and Marty continued her +walk till she reached the church-yard gate; but still no Grace. Yet her +sense of comradeship would not allow her to go on to the grave alone, +and still thinking the delay had been unavoidable, she stood there with +her little basket of flowers in her clasped hands, and her feet chilled +by the damp ground, till more than two hours had passed. + +She then heard the footsteps of Melbury’s men, who presently passed on +their return from the search. In the silence of the night Marty could +not help hearing fragments of their conversation, from which she +acquired a general idea of what had occurred, and where Mrs. Fitzpiers +then was. + +Immediately they had dropped down the hill she entered the church-yard, +going to a secluded corner behind the bushes, where rose the unadorned +stone that marked the last bed of Giles Winterborne. As this solitary +and silent girl stood there in the moonlight, a straight slim figure, +clothed in a plaitless gown, the contours of womanhood so undeveloped +as to be scarcely perceptible, the marks of poverty and toil effaced by +the misty hour, she touched sublimity at points, and looked almost like +a being who had rejected with indifference the attribute of sex for the +loftier quality of abstract humanism. She stooped down and cleared away +the withered flowers that Grace and herself had laid there the previous +week, and put her fresh ones in their place. + +“Now, my own, own love,” she whispered, “you are mine, and on’y mine; +for she has forgot ’ee at last, although for her you died. But +I—whenever I get up I’ll think of ’ee, and whenever I lie down I’ll +think of ’ee. Whenever I plant the young larches I’ll think that none +can plant as you planted; and whenever I split a gad, and whenever I +turn the cider-wring, I’ll say none could do it like you. If ever I +forget your name, let me forget home and Heaven!—But no, no, my love, I +never can forget ’ee; for you was a _good_ man, and did good things!” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOODLANDERS *** + +***** This file should be named 482-0.txt or 482-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/8/482/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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