The Woodlanders

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  The mare paced along with firm and cautious tread through the copsewhere Winterborne had worked, and into the heavier soil where the oaksgrew; past Great Willy, the largest oak in the wood, and thence towardsNellcombe Bottom, intensely dark now with overgrowth, and popularlysupposed to be haunted by the spirits of the fratricides exorcised fromHintock House.

  By this time Fitzpiers was quite recovered as to physical strength.But he had eaten nothing since making a hasty breakfast in London thatmorning, his anxiety about Felice having hurried him away from homebefore dining; as a consequence, the old rum administered by hisfather-in-law flew to the young man's head and loosened his tongue,without his ever having recognized who it was that had lent him akindly hand. He began to speak in desultory sentences, Melbury stillsupporting him.

  "I've come all the way from London to-day," said Fitzpiers. "Ah,that's the place to meet your equals. I live at Hintock--worse, atLittle Hintock--and I am quite lost there. There's not a man withinten miles of Hintock who can comprehend me. I tell you, FarmerWhat's-your-name, that I'm a man of education. I know severallanguages; the poets and I are familiar friends; I used to read more inmetaphysics than anybody within fifty miles; and since I gave that upthere's nobody can match me in the whole county of Wessex as ascientist. Yet I an doomed to live with tradespeople in a miserablelittle hole like Hintock!"

  "Indeed!" muttered Melbury.

  Fitzpiers, increasingly energized by the alcohol, here reared himselfup suddenly from the bowed posture he had hitherto held, thrusting hisshoulders so violently against Melbury's breast as to make it difficultfor the old man to keep a hold on the reins. "People don't appreciateme here!" the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softlyand slowly, "except one--except one!...A passionate soul, as warm asshe is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she isbeautiful. I say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rathertight--rather like the eagle's, you know, that ate out the liver ofPro--Pre--the man on Mount Caucasus. People don't appreciate me, Isay, except HER. Ah, gods, I am an unlucky man! She would have beenmine, she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so.I stooped to mate beneath me, and now I rue it."

  The position was becoming a very trying one for Melbury, corporeallyand mentally. He was obliged to steady Fitzpiers with his left arm,and he began to hate the contact. He hardly knew what to do. It wasuseless to remonstrate with Fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusionfrom the rum and from the fall. He remained silent, his hold upon hiscompanion, however, being stern rather than compassionate.

  "You hurt me a little, farmer--though I am much obliged to you for yourkindness. People don't appreciate me, I say. Between ourselves, I amlosing my practice here; and why? Because I see matchless attractionwhere matchless attraction is, both in person and position. I mentionno names, so nobody will be the wiser. But I have lost her, in alegitimate sense, that is. If I were a free man now, things have cometo such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune(which I don't covet for itself) I should have a chance of satisfyingan honorable ambition--a chance I have never had yet, and now never,never shall have, probably!"

  Melbury, his heart throbbing against the other's backbone, and hisbrain on fire with indignation, ventured to mutter huskily, "Why?"

  The horse ambled on some steps before Fitzpiers replied, "Because I amtied and bound to another by law, as tightly as I am to you by yourarm--not that I complain of your arm--I thank you for helping me.Well, where are we? Not nearly home yet?...Home, say I. It is a home!When I might have been at the other house over there." In a stupefiedway he flung his hand in the direction of the park. "I was just twomonths too early in committing myself. Had I only seen the otherfirst--"

  Here the old man's arm gave Fitzpiers a convulsive shake. "What areyou doing?" continued the latter. "Keep still, please, or put me down.I was saying that I lost her by a mere little two months! There is nochance for me now in this world, and it makes me reckless--reckless!Unless, indeed, anything should happen to the other one. She isamiable enough; but if anything should happen to her--and I hear she isill--well, if it should, I should be free--and my fame, my happiness,would be insured."

  These were the last words that Fitzpiers uttered in his seat in frontof the timber-merchant. Unable longer to master himself, Melbury, theskin of his face compressed, whipped away his spare arm fromFitzpiers's waist, and seized him by the collar.

  "You heartless villain--after all that we have done for ye!" he cried,with a quivering lip. "And the money of hers that you've had, and theroof we've provided to shelter ye! It is to me, George Melbury, thatyou dare to talk like that!" The exclamation was accompanied by apowerful swing from the shoulder, which flung the young man head-longinto the road, Fitzpiers fell with a heavy thud upon the stumps of someundergrowth which had been cut during the winter preceding. Darlingcontinued her walk for a few paces farther and stopped.

  "God forgive me!" Melbury murmured, repenting of what he had done. "Hetried me too sorely; and now perhaps I've murdered him!"

  He turned round in the saddle and looked towards the spot on whichFitzpiers had fallen. To his great surprise he beheld the surgeon riseto his feet with a bound, as if unhurt, and walk away rapidly under thetrees.

  Melbury listened till the rustle of Fitzpiers's footsteps died away."It might have been a crime, but for the mercy of Providence inproviding leaves for his fall," he said to himself. And then his mindreverted to the words of Fitzpiers, and his indignation so mountedwithin him that he almost wished the fall had put an end to the youngman there and then.

  He had not ridden far when he discerned his own gray mare standingunder some bushes. Leaving Darling for a moment, Melbury went forwardand easily caught the younger animal, now disheartened at its freak.He then made the pair of them fast to a tree, and turning back,endeavored to find some trace of Fitzpiers, feeling pitifully that,after all, he had gone further than he intended with the offender.

  But though he threaded the wood hither and thither, his toes ploughinglayer after layer of the little horny scrolls that had once beenleaves, he could not find him. He stood still listening and lookinground. The breeze was oozing through the network of boughs as througha strainer; the trunks and larger branches stood against the light ofthe sky in the forms of writhing men, gigantic candelabra, pikes,halberds, lances, and whatever besides the fancy chose to make of them.Giving up the search, Melbury came back to the horses, and walkedslowly homeward, leading one in each hand.

  It happened that on this self-same evening a boy had been returningfrom Great to Little Hintock about the time of Fitzpiers's andMelbury's passage home along that route. A horse-collar that had beenleft at the harness-mender's to be repaired was required for use atfive o'clock next morning, and in consequence the boy had to fetch itovernight. He put his head through the collar, and accompanied hiswalk by whistling the one tune he knew, as an antidote to fear.

  The boy suddenly became aware of a horse trotting rather friskily alongthe track behind him, and not knowing whether to expect friend or foe,prudence suggested that he should cease his whistling and retreat amongthe trees till the horse and his rider had gone by; a course to whichhe was still more inclined when he found how noiselessly theyapproached, and saw that the horse looked pale, and remembered what hehad read about Death in the Revelation. He therefore deposited thecollar by a tree, and hid himself behind it. The horseman came on, andthe youth, whose eyes were as keen as telescopes, to his great reliefrecognized the doctor.

  As Melbury surmised, Fitzpiers had in the darkness taken Blossom forDarling, and he had not discovered his mistake when he came up oppositethe boy, though he was somewhat surprised at the liveliness of hisusually placid mare. The only other pair of eyes on the spot whosevision was keen as the young carter's were those of the horse; and,with that strongly conservative objection to the unusual which animalsshow, Blossom, on eying the collar under the tree--quite invisible toF
itzpiers--exercised none of the patience of the older horse, but shiedsufficiently to unseat so second-rate an equestrian as the surgeon.

  He fell, and did not move, lying as Melbury afterwards found him. Theboy ran away, salving his conscience for the desertion by thinking howvigorously he would spread the alarm of the accident when he got toHintock--which he uncompromisingly did, incrusting the skeleton eventwith a load of dramatic horrors.

  Grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by herhusband, at the Crown Hotel, Shottsford-Forum, had been paid for anddismissed. The long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness beinga feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind thanbody, and she walked about her sitting-room in something of a hopefulmood. Mrs. Melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that herhusband had returned from London. He had gone out, she said, to see apatient, as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had nodinner or tea. Grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicionof his whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of Mrs. Charmond'srumored sorrows and plans of departure.

  So the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. She had leftHintock in a turmoil of feeling after the revelation of Mrs. Charmond,and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. But shehad thought the matter over, and had allowed her father's influence toprevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that Edgar'sarrival had preceded hers.

  By-and-by Mrs. Melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry andabruptness.

  "I have something to tell--some bad news," she said. "But you must notbe alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. Edgar has beenthrown off his horse. We don't think he is hurt much. It happened inthe wood the other side of Nellcombe Bottom, where 'tis said the ghostsof the brothers walk."

  She went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the inventedhorrors that had been communicated by the boy. "I thought it better totell you at once," she added, "in case he should not be very well ableto walk home, and somebody should bring him."

  Mrs. Melbury really thought matters much worse than she represented,and Grace knew that she thought so. She sat down dazed for a fewminutes, returning a negative to her step-mother's inquiry if she coulddo anything for her. "But please go into the bedroom," Grace said, onsecond thoughts, "and see if all is ready there--in case it isserious." Mrs. Melbury thereupon called Grammer, and they did asdirected, supplying the room with everything they could think of forthe accommodation of an injured man.

  Nobody was left in the lower part of the house. Not many minutespassed when Grace heard a knock at the door--a single knock, not loudenough to reach the ears of those in the bedroom. She went to the topof the stairs and said, faintly, "Come up," knowing that the doorstood, as usual in such houses, wide open.

  Retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up thestairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voicerevealed her to be Suke Damson, in great fright and sorrow. A streakof light from the partially closed door of Grace's room fell upon herface as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale.

  "Oh, Miss Melbury--I would say Mrs. Fitzpiers," she said, wringing herhands. "This terrible news. Is he dead? Is he hurted very bad? Tellme; I couldn't help coming; please forgive me, Miss Melbury--Mrs.Fitzpiers I would say!"

  Grace sank down on the oak chest which stood on the landing, and puther hands to her now flushed face and head. Could she order SukeDamson down-stairs and out of the house? Her husband might be broughtin at any moment, and what would happen? But could she order thisgenuinely grieved woman away?

  There was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till Suke said, "Whydon't ye speak? Is he here? Is he dead? If so, why can't I seehim--would it be so very wrong?"

  Before Grace had answered somebody else came to the door below--afoot-fall light as a roe's. There was a hurried tapping upon thepanel, as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought notwhether a knocker were there or no. Without a pause, and possiblyguided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascendedthe staircase as the first had done. Grace was sufficiently visible,and the lady, for a lady it was, came to her side.

  "I could make nobody hear down-stairs," said Felice Charmond, with lipswhose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like oneready to sink on the floor with distress. "What is--the matter--tellme the worst! Can he live?" She looked at Grace imploringly, withoutperceiving poor Suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk awayinto the shade.

  Mrs. Charmond's little feet were covered with mud; she was quiteunconscious of her appearance now. "I have heard such a dreadfulreport," she went on "I came to ascertain the truth of it. Ishe--killed?"

  "She won't tell us--he's dying--he's in that room!" burst out Suke,regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of Mrs.Melbury and Grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage.

  "Where?" said Mrs. Charmond; and on Suke pointing out the direction,she made as if to go thither.

  Grace barred the way. "He is not there," she said. "I have not seenhim any more than you. I have heard a report only--not so bad as youthink. It must have been exaggerated to you."

  "Please do not conceal anything--let me know all!" said Felice,doubtingly.

  "You shall know all I know--you have a perfect right to know--who canhave a better than either of you?" said Grace, with a delicate stingwhich was lost upon Felice Charmond now. "I repeat, I have only hearda less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and howlittle, I cannot say. I pray God that it means not much--in commonhumanity. You probably pray the same--for other reasons."

  She regarded them both there in the dim light a while.

  They stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heedingher mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was well,very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife'sregulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, forlosing their hearts to her husband. But life, what was it, and who wasshe? She had, like the singer of the psalm of Asaph, been plagued andchastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, inorder to please herself--the individual--"offend against thegeneration," as he would not?

  "He is dying, perhaps," blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron to hereyes.

  In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony ofheart, all for a man who had wronged them--had never really behavedtowards either of them anyhow but selfishly. Neither one but wouldhave wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. The tearswhich his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyessurged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. She turned tothe balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept.

  Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, andletting the tears run down silently. While these three poor womenstood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitiedthemselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in thecourt, and in a moment Melbury's voice was heard calling to hisstableman. Grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out intothe quadrangle as her father crossed it towards the door. "Father,what is the matter with him?" she cried.

  "Who--Edgar?" said Melbury, abruptly. "Matter? Nothing. What, mydear, and have you got home safe? Why, you are better already! But youought not to be out in the air like this."

  "But he has been thrown off his horse!"

  "I know; I know. I saw it. He got up again, and walked off as well asever. A fall on the leaves didn't hurt a spry fellow like him. He didnot come this way," he added, significantly. "I suppose he went tolook for his horse. I tried to find him, but could not. But afterseeing him go away under the trees I found the horse, and have led ithome for safety. So he must walk. Now, don't you stay out here in thisnight air."

  She returned to the house with her father. When she had again ascendedto the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a grea
t relief to herto find that both Petticoat the First and Petticoat the Second of herBien-aime had silently disappeared. They had, in all probability,heard the words of her father, and departed with their anxietiesrelieved.

  Presently her parents came up to Grace, and busied themselves to seethat she was comfortable. Perceiving soon that she would prefer to beleft alone they went away.

  Grace waited on. The clock raised its voice now and then, but herhusband did not return. At her father's usual hour for retiring heagain came in to see her. "Do not stay up," she said, as soon as heentered. "I am not at all tired. I will sit up for him."

  "I think it will be useless, Grace," said Melbury, slowly.

  "Why?"

  "I have had a bitter quarrel with him; and on that account I hardlythink he will return to-night."

  "A quarrel? Was that after the fall seen by the boy?"

  Melbury nodded an affirmative, without taking his eyes off the candle.

  "Yes; it was as we were coming home together," he said.

  Something had been swelling up in Grace while her father was speaking."How could you want to quarrel with him?" she cried, suddenly. "Whycould you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? He ismy husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need notprovoke him unnecessarily. First you induce me to accept him, and thenyou do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!"

  "How can you speak so unjustly to me, Grace?" said Melbury, withindignant sorrow. "I divide you from your husband, indeed! You littlethink--"

  He was inclined to say more--to tell her the whole story of theencounter, and that the provocation he had received had lain entirelyin hearing her despised. But it would have greatly distressed her, andhe forbore. "You had better lie down. You are tired," he said,soothingly. "Good-night."

  The household went to bed, and a silence fell upon the dwelling, brokenonly by the occasional skirr of a halter in Melbury's stables. Despiteher father's advice Grace still waited up. But nobody came.

  It was a critical time in Grace's emotional life that night. Shethought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgotWinterborne.

  "How these unhappy women must have admired Edgar!" she said to herself."How attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he isattractive." The possibility is that, piqued by rivalry, these ideasmight have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a showof the least reciprocity in Fitzpiers. There was, in truth, alove-bird yearning to fly from her heart; and it wanted a lodging badly.

  But no husband came. The fact was that Melbury had been much mistakenabout the condition of Fitzpiers. People do not fall headlong onstumps of underwood with impunity. Had the old man been able to watchFitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising andwalking into the thicket he dropped blood as he went; that he had notproceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and,raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down.