CHAPTER XXIV.
He left her at the door of her father's house. As he receded, and wasclasped out of sight by the filmy shades, he impressed Grace as a manwho hardly appertained to her existence at all. Cleverer, greater thanherself, one outside her mental orbit, as she considered him, he seemedto be her ruler rather than her equal, protector, and dear familiarfriend.
The disappointment she had experienced at his wish, the shock given toher girlish sensibilities by his irreverent views of marriage, togetherwith the sure and near approach of the day fixed for committing herfuture to his keeping, made her so restless that she could scarcelysleep at all that night. She rose when the sparrows began to walk outof the roof-holes, sat on the floor of her room in the dim light, andby-and-by peeped out behind the window-curtains. It was even now dayout-of-doors, though the tones of morning were feeble and wan, and itwas long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed vale.Not a sound came from any of the out-houses as yet. The tree-trunks,the road, the out-buildings, the garden, every object wore that aspectof mesmeric fixity which the suspensive quietude of daybreak lends tosuch scenes. Outside her window helpless immobility seemed to becombined with intense consciousness; a meditative inertness possessedall things, oppressively contrasting with her own active emotions.Beyond the road were some cottage roofs and orchards; over these roofsand over the apple-trees behind, high up the slope, and backed by theplantation on the crest, was the house yet occupied by her futurehusband, the rough-cast front showing whitely through its creepers.The window-shutters were closed, the bedroom curtains closely drawn,and not the thinnest coil of smoke rose from the rugged chimneys.
Something broke the stillness. The front door of the house she wasgazing at opened softly, and there came out into the porch a femalefigure, wrapped in a large shawl, beneath which was visible the whiteskirt of a long loose garment. A gray arm, stretching from within theporch, adjusted the shawl over the woman's shoulders; it was withdrawnand disappeared, the door closing behind her.
The woman went quickly down the box-edged path between the raspberriesand currants, and as she walked her well-developed form and gaitbetrayed her individuality. It was Suke Damson, the affianced one ofsimple young Tim Tangs. At the bottom of the garden she entered theshelter of the tall hedge, and only the top of her head could be seenhastening in the direction of her own dwelling.
Grace had recognized, or thought she recognized, in the gray armstretching from the porch, the sleeve of a dressing-gown which Mr.Fitzpiers had been wearing on her own memorable visit to him. Her facefired red. She had just before thought of dressing herself and takinga lonely walk under the trees, so coolly green this early morning; butshe now sat down on her bed and fell into reverie. It seemed as ifhardly any time had passed when she heard the household moving brisklyabout, and breakfast preparing down-stairs; though, on rousing herselfto robe and descend, she found that the sun was throwing his rayscompletely over the tree-tops, a progress of natural phenomenadenoting that at least three hours had elapsed since she last lookedout of the window.
When attired she searched about the house for her father; she found himat last in the garden, stooping to examine the potatoes for signs ofdisease. Hearing her rustle, he stood up and stretched his back andarms, saying, "Morning t'ye, Gracie. I congratulate ye. It is only amonth to-day to the time!"
She did not answer, but, without lifting her dress, waded between thedewy rows of tall potato-green into the middle of the plot where he was.
"I have been thinking very much about my position this morning--eversince it was light," she began, excitedly, and trembling so that shecould hardly stand. "And I feel it is a false one. I wish not tomarry Mr. Fitzpiers. I wish not to marry anybody; but I'll marry GilesWinterborne if you say I must as an alternative."
Her father's face settled into rigidity, he turned pale, and camedeliberately out of the plot before he answered her. She had neverseen him look so incensed before.
"Now, hearken to me," he said. "There's a time for a woman to alterher mind; and there's a time when she can no longer alter it, if shehas any right eye to her parents' honor and the seemliness of things.That time has come. I won't say to ye, you SHALL marry him. But Iwill say that if you refuse, I shall forever be ashamed and a-weary ofye as a daughter, and shall look upon you as the hope of my life nomore. What do you know about life and what it can bring forth, and howyou ought to act to lead up to best ends? Oh, you are an ungratefulmaid, Grace; you've seen that fellow Giles, and he has got over ye;that's where the secret lies, I'll warrant me!"
"No, father, no! It is not Giles--it is something I cannot tell youof--"
"Well, make fools of us all; make us laughing-stocks; break it off;have your own way."
"But who knows of the engagement as yet? how can breaking it disgraceyou?"
Melbury then by degrees admitted that he had mentioned the engagementto this acquaintance and to that, till she perceived that in hisrestlessness and pride he had published it everywhere. She wentdismally away to a bower of laurel at the top of the garden. Herfather followed her.
"It is that Giles Winterborne!" he said, with an upbraiding gaze at her.
"No, it is not; though for that matter you encouraged him once," shesaid, troubled to the verge of despair. "It is not Giles, it is Mr.Fitzpiers."
"You've had a tiff--a lovers' tiff--that's all, I suppose!"
"It is some woman--"
"Ay, ay; you are jealous. The old story. Don't tell me. Now do youbide here. I'll send Fitzpiers to you. I saw him smoking in front ofhis house but a minute by-gone."
He went off hastily out of the garden-gate and down the lane. But shewould not stay where she was; and edging through a slit in thegarden-fence, walked away into the wood. Just about here the treeswere large and wide apart, and there was no undergrowth, so that shecould be seen to some distance; a sylph-like, greenish-white creature,as toned by the sunlight and leafage. She heard a foot-fall crushingdead leaves behind her, and found herself reconnoitered by Fitzpiershimself, approaching gay and fresh as the morning around them.
His remote gaze at her had been one of mild interest rather than ofrapture. But she looked so lovely in the green world about her, herpink cheeks, her simple light dress, and the delicate flexibility ofher movement acquired such rarity from their wild-wood setting, thathis eyes kindled as he drew near.
"My darling, what is it? Your father says you are in the pouts, andjealous, and I don't know what. Ha! ha! ha! as if there were any rivalto you, except vegetable nature, in this home of recluses! We knowbetter."
"Jealous; oh no, it is not so," said she, gravely. "That's a mistakeof his and yours, sir. I spoke to him so closely about the question ofmarriage with you that he did not apprehend my state of mind."
"But there's something wrong--eh?" he asked, eying her narrowly, andbending to kiss her. She shrank away, and his purposed kiss miscarried.
"What is it?" he said, more seriously for this little defeat.
She made no answer beyond, "Mr. Fitzpiers, I have had no breakfast, Imust go in."
"Come," he insisted, fixing his eyes upon her. "Tell me at once, Isay."
It was the greater strength against the smaller; but she was masteredless by his manner than by her own sense of the unfairness of silence."I looked out of the window," she said, with hesitation. "I'll tellyou by-and-by. I must go in-doors. I have had no breakfast."
By a sort of divination his conjecture went straight to the fact. "NorI," said he, lightly. "Indeed, I rose late to-day. I have had abroken night, or rather morning. A girl of the village--I don't knowher name--came and rang at my bell as soon as it was light--betweenfour and five, I should think it was--perfectly maddened with an achingtooth. As no-body heard her ring, she threw some gravel at my window,till at last I heard her and slipped on my dressing-gown and went down.The poor thing begged me with tears in her eyes to take out hertormentor, if I dragged her head off. Down she sat and out it ca
me--alovely molar, not a speck upon it; and off she went with it in herhandkerchief, much contented, though it would have done good work forher for fifty years to come."
It was all so plausible--so completely explained. Knowing nothing ofthe incident in the wood on old Midsummer-eve, Grace felt that hersuspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of anhonest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honoring his word. Atthe moment of her mental liberation the bushes about the garden hadmoved, and her father emerged into the shady glade. "Well, I hope it ismade up?" he said, cheerily.
"Oh yes," said Fitzpiers, with his eyes fixed on Grace, whose eyes wereshyly bent downward.
"Now," said her father, "tell me, the pair of ye, that you still meanto take one another for good and all; and on the strength o't you shallhave another couple of hundred paid down. I swear it by the name."
Fitzpiers took her hand. "We declare it, do we not, my dear Grace?"said he.
Relieved of her doubt, somewhat overawed, and ever anxious to please,she was disposed to settle the matter; yet, womanlike, she would notrelinquish her opportunity of asking a concession of some sort. "Ifour wedding can be at church, I say yes," she answered, in a measuredvoice. "If not, I say no."
Fitzpiers was generous in his turn. "It shall be so," he rejoined,gracefully. "To holy church we'll go, and much good may it do us."
They returned through the bushes indoors, Grace walking, full ofthought between the other two, somewhat comforted, both by Fitzpiers'singenious explanation and by the sense that she was not to be deprivedof a religious ceremony. "So let it be," she said to herself. "PrayGod it is for the best."
From this hour there was no serious attempt at recalcitration on herpart. Fitzpiers kept himself continually near her, dominating anyrebellious impulse, and shaping her will into passive concurrence withall his desires. Apart from his lover-like anxiety to possess her, thefew golden hundreds of the timber-dealer, ready to hand, formed a warmbackground to Grace's lovely face, and went some way to remove hisuneasiness at the prospect of endangering his professional and socialchances by an alliance with the family of a simple countryman.
The interim closed up its perspective surely and silently. WheneverGrace had any doubts of her position, the sense of contracting time waslike a shortening chamber: at other moments she was comparativelyblithe. Day after day waxed and waned; the one or two woodmen whosawed, shaped, spokeshaved on her father's premises at this inactiveseason of the year, regularly came and unlocked the doors in themorning, locked them in the evening, supped, leaned over theirgarden-gates for a whiff of evening air, and to catch any last andfarthest throb of news from the outer world, which entered and expiredat Little Hintock like the exhausted swell of a wave in some innermostcavern of some innermost creek of an embayed sea; yet no newsinterfered with the nuptial purpose at their neighbor's house. Thesappy green twig-tips of the season's growth would not, she thought,be appreciably woodier on the day she became a wife, so near was thetime; the tints of the foliage would hardly have changed. Everythingwas so much as usual that no itinerant stranger would have supposed awoman's fate to be hanging in the balance at that summer's decline.
But there were preparations, imaginable readily enough by those who hadspecial knowledge. In the remote and fashionable town of Sandbournesomething was growing up under the hands of several persons who hadnever seen Grace Melbury, never would see her, or care anything abouther at all, though their creation had such interesting relation to herlife that it would enclose her very heart at a moment when that heartwould beat, if not with more emotional ardor, at least with moreemotional turbulence than at any previous time.
Why did Mrs. Dollery's van, instead of passing along at the end of thesmaller village to Great Hintock direct, turn one Saturday night intoLittle Hintock Lane, and never pull up till it reached Mr. Melbury'sgates? The gilding shine of evening fell upon a large, flat box notless than a yard square, and safely tied with cord, as it was handedout from under the tilt with a great deal of care. But it was notheavy for its size; Mrs. Dollery herself carried it into the house.Tim Tangs, the hollow-turner, Bawtree, Suke Damson, and others, lookedknowing, and made remarks to each other as they watched its entrance.Melbury stood at the door of the timber-shed in the attitude of a manto whom such an arrival was a trifling domestic detail with which hedid not condescend to be concerned. Yet he well divined the contentsof that box, and was in truth all the while in a pleasant exaltation atthe proof that thus far, at any rate, no disappointment had supervened.While Mrs. Dollery remained--which was rather long, from her sense ofthe importance of her errand--he went into the out-house; but as soonas she had had her say, been paid, and had rumbled away, he entered thedwelling, to find there what he knew he should find--his wife anddaughter in a flutter of excitement over the wedding-gown, just arrivedfrom the leading dress-maker of Sandbourne watering-place aforesaid.
During these weeks Giles Winterborne was nowhere to be seen or heardof. At the close of his tenure in Hintock he had sold some of hisfurniture, packed up the rest--a few pieces endeared by associations,or necessary to his occupation--in the house of a friendly neighbor,and gone away. People said that a certain laxity had crept into hislife; that he had never gone near a church latterly, and had beensometimes seen on Sundays with unblacked boots, lying on his elbowunder a tree, with a cynical gaze at surrounding objects. He waslikely to return to Hintock when the cider-making season came round,his apparatus being stored there, and travel with his mill and pressfrom village to village.
The narrow interval that stood before the day diminished yet. There wasin Grace's mind sometimes a certain anticipative satisfaction, thesatisfaction of feeling that she would be the heroine of an hour;moreover, she was proud, as a cultivated woman, to be the wife of acultivated man. It was an opportunity denied very frequently to youngwomen in her position, nowadays not a few; those in whom parentaldiscovery of the value of education has implanted tastes which parentalcircles fail to gratify. But what an attenuation was this cold prideof the dream of her youth, in which she had pictured herself walking instate towards the altar, flushed by the purple light and bloom of herown passion, without a single misgiving as to the sealing of the bond,and fervently receiving as her due
"The homage of a thousand hearts; the fond, deep love of one."
Everything had been clear then, in imagination now something wasundefined. She had little carking anxieties; a curious fatefulnessseemed to rule her, and she experienced a mournful want of some one toconfide in.
The day loomed so big and nigh that her prophetic ear could, in fancy,catch the noise of it, hear the murmur of the villagers as she came outof church, imagine the jangle of the three thin-toned Hintock bells.The dialogues seemed to grow louder, and the ding-ding-dong of thosethree crazed bells more persistent. She awoke: the morning had come.
Five hours later she was the wife of Fitzpiers.