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The Woodlanders

by Thomas Hardy · English · Gutenberg #482 · 778,028 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Woodlanders

Author: Thomas Hardy


        
Release date: April 1, 1996 [eBook #482]
                Most recently updated: May 21, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/482


*** 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 co

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