 CHAPTER XXI When the General Stampede occurred, Winterborne had also been looking on, and encountering one of the girls he asked her what had 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 hourglass, it was terrible. This account being an idly 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 had pumped from a bow, 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 hourglass 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 quite 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 was rehearsing a scene to himself, and the unusual place and hour, were sufficient to account for any trepidation among the hint of daughters at encountering him. He paused and looked around as if he had forgotten where he was, not observing Giles who was the colour 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's suffering under an agitation more than that of simple fatigue. The turnpike rose over there, said Giles. I don't want the turnpike rose, the gentleman said impatiently. I came from there. I want Hintock House. Is there not a path that would cross here? Well, yes, a sort of path, but it's 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'm staying for a day or two, but I did not know it was so far. It's 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 underbows of the trees to give his companion a passage, saying every now and then when the twigs on being released flew back like whips, mine 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 to a corner here, close behind the house. He added with hesitation, you know, I suppose, sir, that Mrs. Sharman is not at home. You mistake, said the other quickly. Mrs. Sharman has been away for some time, but she's at home now. Giles had not contradicted him, though he felt sure that a gentleman was wrong. You are 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 were an Italian or Spanish or French gentleman, perhaps. I am not, either. Giles did not fill in the pause which ensued, and a 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 Coles, and I had 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's ward, 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, please? the gentleman asked. My watch has stopped. It's 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 in his pocket, said awkwardly, I offered it to you 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 descended the slope. At the bottom he looked up 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. Sherman, 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. Sherman, 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 a hotel, a church, and the next day in a carriage hired at the inn. The leafy week which followed the tender doings of Midsummer's Eve brought a visitor to Fitzpierre'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 waved a point and came in. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at Fitzpierre 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 have 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 Mids, 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," Fitzpierre'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 Fitzpierre was at the springtide 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 maneuver 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 Fitzpierre'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 Fitzpierre. 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 the 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 well nigh 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 worthwhile. I am glad you don't object, said Fitzpier, 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 honoured 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 endeavour 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 Fitzpier'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 you. 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 Fitzpier, who had seen Grace much oftener already than her father knew of. When he was gone Fitzpier 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 destiny 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, ungentile, 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 Fitzpier's news. But yet they were not right. Standing on the ground, and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flagstaff, 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. "'A!' 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 journeyman, except as a thing to get passed, they leisurely surveyed the door through which he had disappeared. "'What maggot has the gaffer got in his head now?' said Tangs, the elder. "'Somewhat to do with that child of his. And you've got a maid of your own, John up, John, 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 is a lucky thing for ye, John, as things be.' Well, he ought to have a dozen. That would bring him to reason. I see him walking together last Sunday, and when they came to a puddle, he lifted her over like a half-penny doll. He ought to have a dozen. He'd let them 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. "'Loose, 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, Grace!' 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 you, why, you've flung your grapple over the doctor, and he's come and 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. "'Twas it necessary that you should? To his 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 daresay. 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 offhand 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 Fitzpierre 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 Fitzpierre acted upon her like a dram, exciting her, throwing her into a novel atmosphere which biased 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 Fitzpierre 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 super-fine, 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 respectors 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 the reflective air. In the evening her father, who knew that the note had come, said, Why be he 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. His respect for Fitzpierre was based less on his professional position, which was not much, than on the standing of his family in the county in bygone 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 district, 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 neighbouring 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. Fitzpire's family were lured of the manor for I don't know how many hundred years, and there stands the village of Buckberry Fitzpire's, a wonderful property, twas wonderful, but they are not lords of the manor there now. I know, but good and great things die as well as little and foolish. The only ones representing the family now, I believe, are our doctors 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 Buckberry. Is it not so? You say our name occurs in old deeds continually. Oh, yes, as yeoman, copy-holders, and such like, but think how much better this will be for ye. You'll be living a high intellectual life, such as it 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 ye'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 twid'n't lorry at all. Don't think such men as neighbor Giles ye're 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 Fitzpire's return to drive into the aforesaid veil where stood the village of Buckberry Fitzpire's. 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 Fitzpire's 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 carvings, which glistened with the moisture. It was a degradation of even such a rude form of art as this to be treated so grossly, she thought, and for the first time the family of Fitzpire's 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 that 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. Fitzpires primed, no doubt, with more recent discoveries. The day of Fitzpires' 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 interpreters, which well-nigh 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 timberyard, stared at the interior of the room, jerked out, hey, hey, and retreated again. Between four and five, Fitzpires 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 what he considered a woodland matron's level of thought till a rustling was heard on the stairs, and Grace came in. Fitzpires 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 facidiousness was a little distressed that Fitzpires should see by this action the strain his visit was putting upon her father, and to make matters worse for her just then, old grammar 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 chatter over the tea sank into pleasant desulteriness, Mr. Melbury broke in with speeches of layered precision on very remote topics, as if he feared to let Fitzpires' mind dwell critically on the subject nearest to 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 mirrorly, 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 particularly circumstance, and not have dispersed themselves over the larger field of a whole family involved dangerous risks to future happiness. Fitzpires did not stay more than an hour, but that time had apparently advanced his sentiments towards Grace once and for all, from a vaguely liquefiescent 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. Fitzpires. 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 onto the door, where he stealthily kissed her. She broke from him trembling, blushed and turned aside, hardly knowing how things had advanced to this. Fitzpires 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 Fitzpires 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 Fitzpires. This visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summer days of that year. Grace was born 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 Fitzpires. 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 Fitzpires 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 shortcut, homework 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 façade. 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 power. 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 person 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 Winterburn, 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 purchased the practice that I contemplate purchasing at Budmouth, hardly more than 20 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. End of Chapter 23. The Woodlanders, Chapter 24. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Coming by Paula Hines, The Woodlanders by Thomas Hardy, Chapter 24. 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. Clever, greater than herself, won 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 reverent 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 warm, and it was long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed veil. Not a sound came from any of the outhouses as yet, the tree trunks, the road, the outbuildings, the garden—every object wore that aspect of mesmeric fixity, which the suspense of quietude of daytime 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 on the slope and back by the plantation on the crest, was the house yet occupied by her future husband, the rough cast front showing widely 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. Everything 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 grey 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 currents, and as she walked her well-developed form and gait betrayed her individuality. It was Suki Damson, the affianced one of the 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. This had recognised, or thought she had recognised, in the grey 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 a reverie. It seemed as if hardly any time had passed when she heard the household moving briskly about. The breakfast, preparing downstairs, though unrousing herself to robe and descend, she found that the sun was throwing his rays completely over the treetops, a progress of natural phenomena denoting that at least three hours had lapsed since she had 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 arm, saying, Moreland, T. Gracie, I congratulate you. 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 Jaws 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 is a time for a woman to alter her mind, and there is a time when she can no longer alter it, if she has any right eye to her parents honour, and the seamliness of things. This 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 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? O, 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-stock, 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 went aborn, he said, with an up-braiding 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 lover's tiff, that's all, I suppose. It is some woman. Aye, aye, 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. An 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 silph-like, greenish-white creature as toned by the sunlight and leafage. She heard a footfall crushing dead leaves behind her, and found herself reconnitred 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 in year. 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 his home of reclusus, we know better. Jealous? Oh, no, it is not so, she said gravely. That's a mistake of his and your's, 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, eyeing 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. Fitzpierce, 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 the window, she said with hesitation, I'll tell you by and by. I must go indoors, I have had no breakfast. By assorted 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 my bell as soon as it was light between four and five, I should think it was, perfectly maddened with an aching tooth. As nobody 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 her 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 Midsomer Eve, Grace felt that her suspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of an honest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honouring 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 cheerfully. 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 ye will still mean to take one another for good in all, and on the strength out ye shall have another couple a 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 over-odd 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 a 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 wholly 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' 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 loverlike 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, spoke-shaved 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, subbed, 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 neighbour'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 Sandborn, something was growing up under the hands of several persons who had never seen Grace Malbury, 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 ardour, at least with more emotional turbulence than at any previous time. Why did Mrs. Dallery's van, instead of passing along at the end of the smaller village to Great Hintuck Direct, turn one Saturday night into Little Hintuck Lane, and never pull up till it reached Mr. Malbury'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. Dallery herself carried it into the house. Tim, thanks the hollow turner, bought three Suki dams and others, looked knowing, and made remarks to each other as they watched its entrance. Malbury 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 condescension 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. Dallery remained, which was rather long from her sense of the importance of her errand, he went out into the outhouse. 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 dressmaker of Sanburn, watering-place at Forsed. During these weeks, Jaws Winterborne was nowhere to be seen or heard of. At the close of his tenure in Hentuck, 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 neighbour, and gone away. Jaws said that a certain laxity had crept into his life, that he had never gone near a church laterally, 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 Hentuck when the cider-making season came round, his apparatus being stored there, and travel with his mail 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 the 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 Jew, 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 someone to confide in. The day loomed so big and nigh, that her prophetic ear couldn't fancy catch the noise of it. Here the murmur of the villagers as she came out of church, imagined the jangle of the three, thin-toned, hintocked 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. The Woodlanders by Thomas Hoddy Chapter 25 The chief hotel at Sheraton 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. Since perhaps it arose that the best and most luxurious private sitting-room that the inn could afford overlooked the nether-pots of the establishment, where beyond the yard were to be seen gardens and orchards, now bossed, nay encrusted, with scarlet and gold fruit, stretching to infinite distance under a luminous lavender mist. The time was early autumn. From the Fair Apple's red-as-evening sky do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground. When juicy pears and berries of black dye, do dance and 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. Fitzpears 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 diver's points in mawn baskets, while others were grinding them and others wringing down the pommice whose sweet juice gushed forth into tubs and pales. 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 outhouse wall, and wore his shirtsleaves rolled up beyond his elbows, to keep them unstained while he rammed the pommice into the bags of horsehair. Fragments of apple rind had delighted upon the brim of his hat, nearly 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 ring-house for his own use, building up the pommice in great straw cheeses as they were called. But here on the margin of Pomona's plain was a debatable land, neither orchard nor silvin 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 traveling cider-maker. His press and mill were fixed to wheels instead of being set up in a side-house, and with a couple of horses, with stubs, 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-pots of the town were just now abounding with apple-gatherings. They stood in the yards in cots, baskets, and loose heaps. And the blue stagged an air of autumn which hung over everything was heavy with a sweet cidery smell. Cakes of pommice 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 they were 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, codlands, costards, stubbers, rather-ripes, and other well-known friends of her ravenous youth. Grace watched the headman with interest. The slightest sigh escaped her. Up she thought of the day not so far distant when that friend of her childhood had met her by her father's arrangement in the 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 Cretel, too, who traveled with Giles, had been incidentally informed by the hostler that Dr. Fitzpiers and his young wife were in the hotel, after which news Cretel 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, my stuff, it is my thoughts, it is my thoughts. Yes, you've lost a hundred load of timber well-seasoned. You've lost five hundred pound in good money. You've lost the stone-windered house that's big enough to hold a dozen families. You've lost a share of half a dozen good wagons and their horses, all lost, through your letting slip she that was once your own. Good God, Cretel, 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 in 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, in 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 hot winds flows by hot, bright motion. May I sink meanlier than the worst, abandoned, outcast, crushed, accursed. If I forget. Though you forget, no word of mine shall marry 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. They should have contimmed Wintable unthoroughly, or not at all. As it was, unclosing 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. Wintable, there he is, side-making. He combines that with his other business, you know. Oh, that fellow, said Fitzpiers, his curiosity becoming extinct. She reproachfully. What? Call Mr. Wintable 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, due by all means, my dear one, I dare say I am inhuman and supercilious and contemptably proud of my poor old ramshackle family, but I do honestly confess to you that I feel as if I belong to a different species from the people who are working in that yard. And for me, too, then, for my blood is no better than theirs, he looked at her with a drawl 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 Winterbaughn. 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. His peers 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 labours 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 melburies. Workman had been painting, papering, and white-washing 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, but 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 out-of-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 Sheraton Abbas. He would walk across to his old lodging, to learn how his locum tenants had gone 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-law's ship 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 Shahasty marrying Dr. Fitzpiers, whereas they won't believe you know such clever doctrines in physics as they once supposed to be, 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. Charmont.' "'Oh, indeed,' said Fitzpiers, with but slight interest, I've never seen her. "'She has seen you, sir, with a Renault.' "'Never.' "'Yes, she saw you in some hotel or street for a minute or two while you were away traveling, and accidentally heard your name. And when she made some remark about you, Miss Ellis, that's her maid, totally you was on your wedding-tower with Mr. Melbury's daughter. When 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 upstairs 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. It 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-merchants' parlor below, graces being occasionally intermingled. Descending and looking into the room from the doorway, he found quite a large gathering of neighbors and other acquaintances, praising and congratulating Mrs. Fitzpiers on her return. Among them being the Dairyman, Phama Baatri, and the Master Blacksmith from Great Hintock, also the Cooper, the Hollow Turner, the Ex-Size Man, and some others with their wives who lived hard by. Grace, girl that she was, had quite forgotten her new dignity and her husbands. 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 will 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 us 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 chide 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 the our 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 a father's tenancy 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. Gee, 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 compere, and therefore in a degree only one of themselves, the Hintock woodlanders 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 Buckberry Fitzpierses, they had accorded to him for nothing a touching of hatbrims, 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 to trade it 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 and that came to him from the Board of Guardians a complaint that a popper 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 indoors 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 grammar ran up to say that a message had arrived from Hintock House, requesting Dr. Fitzpiers to attend there at once. Mrs. Chaman 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 downstairs. It was the first time since their marriage that he had left her without a kiss. CHAPTER XXVI. Peter Bourne'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-patched pinion of his paternal roof had vanished from its sight, and that the walls were leveled. In present circumstances he had a feeling for the spot that might have been called morbid, and when he had subbed 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 slents to northeast, given them by the great November Gale of 1824, which carried a brick bodily over the chaselbank. 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, winter-born 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 fetan, a groom being just visible behind. Presently there was a slight scrape, then a scream. Winter-born went across to the spot, and found the fetan half overturned, its driver sitting on the heap of rubbish which had once been his dwelling, and the man seizing the horse's heads. The equipage was Mrs. Sharnon's and the unseated charioteer, that lady herself. To his inquiry, if she were heard, she made some incoherent reply to the effect that she did not know. The damage in other respects was little or none. The fetan was righted, Mrs. Sharnon 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-beams still winter-born 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. Winter-born took the message from the groom, and proceeded to the doctors at once. Having delivered it, he stabbed 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. Dilly arrived at Hintuck 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, closely and femininely draped, where, by the light of the shaded lamp, he saw a woman, a 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-plates. 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 provision 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. Sharman 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 nonetheless that I am happy to find the accident has not been serious. I'm very much shaken, she said. Oh, yes, he replied, and completed his examination, which convinced him that there was really nothing to 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 awhile, 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 cord 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. Fitzpierce 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 eyeing 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 rear-collared hair. 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 shame-facedly. 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 true veil, 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 impikinious 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 to 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 flunked 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 men, 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 mirror's bud, red, fresh, vivid, but small. It was a colossal passion and pose, a giant and 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 so poor. Better than that, you have, judging by your last remark, outgrown the foolish, impulsive passions of your early girlhood. 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 subject 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 three-score and ten won't do it, at least for me. He gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Here was a soul of souls. Mrs. Sharman, 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 cared about like quartz upon the waves of masculine desires. I hope I have not alarmed you. But Hintuck has the curious effect of bottling up 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 effaced, except those who think I am a Roman Catholic. And when I speak disrespectfully of the weather or the crops, they think I'm 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 tomorrow, and see if I'm 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. Goodbye. 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 offhand before her new grace that it was here she lived. That, in short, at sundry times and seasons, the individuality of Hintuck 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. Charmonds 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 role of affairs, he would scarce ever have recalled it again. To find her here, however, in these somewhat romantic circumstances, magnify that bygone and transitory tenderness to indescribable proportions. On entering Little Hintuck, he found himself regarding it in a new way, from the Hintuck house point of view, rather than from his own in the Melbury's. The household had all gone to bed, and as he went upstairs 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 axis 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. Charmonds 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's shaken. I'm going again tomorrow. 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. Can you not 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, warnly, though scarcely thinking of what he was saying, so vividly was there, present to his mind, the personality of Mrs. Charmonds. End of chapter