by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XLI.
The first hundred yards of their course lay under motionless trees,whose upper foliage began to hiss with falling drops of rain. By thetime that they emerged upon a glade it rained heavily.
"This is awkward," said Grace, with an effort to hide her concern.
Winterborne stopped. "Grace," he said, preserving a strictly businessmanner which belied him, "you cannot go to Sherton to-night."
"But I must!"
"Why? It is nine miles from here. It is almost an impossibility inthis rain."
"True--WHY?" she replied, mournfully, at the end of a silence. "What isreputation to me?"
"Now hearken," said Giles. "You won't--go back to your--"
"No, no, no! Don't make me!" she cried, piteously.
"Then let us turn." They slowly retraced their steps, and again stoodbefore his door. "Now, this house from this moment is yours, and notmine," he said, deliberately. "I have a place near by where I can stayvery well."
Her face had drooped. "Oh!" she murmured, as she saw the dilemma."What have I done!"
There was a smell of something burning within, and he looked throughthe window. The rabbit that he had been cooking to coax a weakappetite was beginning to char. "Please go in and attend to it," hesaid. "Do what you like. Now I leave. You will find everything aboutthe hut that is necessary."
"But, Giles--your supper," she exclaimed. "An out-house would do forme--anything--till to-morrow at day-break!"
He signified a negative. "I tell you to go in--you may catch agues outhere in your delicate state. You can give me my supper through thewindow, if you feel well enough. I'll wait a while."
He gently urged her to pass the door-way, and was relieved when he sawher within the room sitting down. Without so much as crossing thethreshold himself, he closed the door upon her, and turned the key inthe lock. Tapping at the window, he signified that she should open thecasement, and when she had done this he handed in the key to her.
"You are locked in," he said; "and your own mistress."
Even in her trouble she could not refrain from a faint smile at hisscrupulousness, as she took the door-key.
"Do you feel better?" he went on. "If so, and you wish to give me someof your supper, please do. If not, it is of no importance. I can getsome elsewhere."
The grateful sense of his kindness stirred her to action, though sheonly knew half what that kindness really was. At the end of some tenminutes she again came to the window, pushed it open, and said in awhisper, "Giles!" He at once emerged from the shade, and saw that shewas preparing to hand him his share of the meal upon a plate.
"I don't like to treat you so hardly," she murmured, with deep regretin her words as she heard the rain pattering on the leaves. "But--Isuppose it is best to arrange like this?"
"Oh yes," he said, quickly.
"I feel that I could never have reached Sherton."
"It was impossible."
"Are you sure you have a snug place out there?" (With renewedmisgiving.)
"Quite. Have you found everything you want? I am afraid it is ratherrough accommodation."
"Can I notice defects? I have long passed that stage, and you know it,Giles, or you ought to."
His eyes sadly contemplated her face as its pale responsivenessmodulated through a crowd of expressions that showed only too clearlyto what a pitch she was strung. If ever Winterborne's heart frettedhis bosom it was at this sight of a perfectly defenceless creatureconditioned by such circumstances. He forgot his own agony in thesatisfaction of having at least found her a shelter. He took his plateand cup from her hands, saying, "Now I'll push the shutter to, and youwill find an iron pin on the inside, which you must fix into the bolt.Do not stir in the morning till I come and call you."
She expressed an alarmed hope that he would not go very far away.
"Oh no--I shall be quite within hail," said Winterborne.
She bolted the window as directed, and he retreated. His snug placeproved to be a wretched little shelter of the roughest kind, formed offour hurdles thatched with brake-fern. Underneath were dry sticks,hay, and other litter of the sort, upon which he sat down; and there inthe dark tried to eat his meal. But his appetite was quite gone. Hepushed the plate aside, and shook up the hay and sacks, so as to form arude couch, on which he flung himself down to sleep, for it was gettinglate.
But sleep he could not, for many reasons, of which not the least wasthought of his charge. He sat up, and looked towards the cot throughthe damp obscurity. With all its external features the same as usual,he could scarcely believe that it contained the dear friend--he wouldnot use a warmer name--who had come to him so unexpectedly, and, hecould not help admitting, so rashly.
He had not ventured to ask her any particulars; but the position waspretty clear without them. Though social law had negatived forevertheir opening paradise of the previous June, it was not without stoicalpride that he accepted the present trying conjuncture. There was oneman on earth in whom she believed absolutely, and he was that man.That this crisis could end in nothing but sorrow was a view for amoment effaced by this triumphant thought of her trust in him; and thepurity of the affection with which he responded to that trust renderedhim more than proof against any frailty that besieged him in relationto her.
The rain, which had never ceased, now drew his attention by beginningto drop through the meagre screen that covered him. He rose to attemptsome remedy for this discomfort, but the trembling of his knees and thethrobbing of his pulse told him that in his weakness he was unable tofence against the storm, and he lay down to bear it as best he might.He was angry with himself for his feebleness--he who had been sostrong. It was imperative that she should know nothing of his presentstate, and to do that she must not see his face by daylight, for itscolor would inevitably betray him.
The next morning, accordingly, when it was hardly light, he rose anddragged his stiff limbs about the precincts, preparing for hereverything she could require for getting breakfast within. On thebench outside the window-sill he placed water, wood, and othernecessaries, writing with a piece of chalk beside them, "It is bestthat I should not see you. Put my breakfast on the bench."
At seven o'clock he tapped at her window, as he had promised,retreating at once, that she might not catch sight of him. But fromhis shelter under the boughs he could see her very well, when, inresponse to his signal, she opened the window and the light fell uponher face. The languid largeness of her eyes showed that her sleep hadbeen little more than his own, and the pinkness of their lids, that herwaking hours had not been free from tears.
She read the writing, seemed, he thought, disappointed, but took up thematerials he had provided, evidently thinking him some way off. Gileswaited on, assured that a girl who, in spite of her culture, knew whatcountry life was, would find no difficulty in the simple preparation oftheir food.
Within the cot it was all very much as he conjectured, though Grace hadslept much longer than he. After the loneliness of the night, shewould have been glad to see him; but appreciating his feeling when sheread the writing, she made no attempt to recall him. She foundabundance of provisions laid in, his plan being to replenish hisbuttery weekly, and this being the day after the victualling van hadcalled from Sherton. When the meal was ready, she put what he requiredoutside, as she had done with the supper; and, notwithstanding herlonging to see him, withdrew from the window promptly, and left him tohimself.
It had been a leaden dawn, and the rain now steadily renewed its fall.As she heard no more of Winterborne, she concluded that he had goneaway to his daily work, and forgotten that he had promised to accompanyher to Sherton an erroneous conclusion, for he remained all day, byforce of his condition, within fifty yards of where she was. Themorning wore on and in her doubt when to start, and how to travel, shelingered yet, keeping the door carefully bolted, lest an intrudershould discover her. Locked in this place, she was comparatively safe,at any rate, and doubted if she would be s
afe elsewhere.
The humid gloom of an ordinary wet day was doubled by the shade anddrip of the leafage. Autumn, this year, was coming in with rains.Gazing, in her enforced idleness, from the one window of theliving-room, she could see various small members of the animalcommunity that lived unmolested there--creatures of hair, fluff, andscale, the toothed kind and the billed kind; underground creatures,jointed and ringed--circumambulating the hut, under the impressionthat, Giles having gone away, nobody was there; and eying itinquisitively with a view to winter-quarters. Watching theseneighbors, who knew neither law nor sin, distracted her a little fromher trouble; and she managed to while away some portion of theafternoon by putting Giles's home in order and making littleimprovements which she deemed that he would value when she was gone.
Once or twice she fancied that she heard a faint noise amid the trees,resembling a cough; but as it never came any nearer she concluded thatit was a squirrel or a bird.
At last the daylight lessened, and she made up a larger fire for theevenings were chilly. As soon as it was too dark--which wascomparatively early--to discern the human countenance in this place ofshadows, there came to the window to her great delight, a tapping whichshe knew from its method to be Giles's.
She opened the casement instantly, and put out her hand to him, thoughshe could only just perceive his outline. He clasped her fingers, andshe noticed the heat of his palm and its shakiness.
"He has been walking fast, in order to get here quickly," she thought.How could she know that he had just crawled out from the straw of theshelter hard by; and that the heat of his hand was feverishness?
"My dear, good Giles!" she burst out, impulsively.
"Anybody would have done it for you," replied Winterborne, with as muchmatter-of-fact as he could summon.
"About my getting to Exbury?" she said.
"I have been thinking," responded Giles, with tender deference, "thatyou had better stay where you are for the present, if you wish not tobe caught. I need not tell you that the place is yours as long as youlike; and perhaps in a day or two, finding you absent, he will go away.At any rate, in two or three days I could do anything to assist--suchas make inquiries, or go a great way towards Sherton-Abbas with you;for the cider season will soon be coming on, and I want to run down tothe Vale to see how the crops are, and I shall go by the Sherton road.But for a day or two I am busy here." He was hoping that by the timementioned he would be strong enough to engage himself actively on herbehalf. "I hope you do not feel over-much melancholy in being aprisoner?"
She declared that she did not mind it; but she sighed.
From long acquaintance they could read each other's heart-symptoms likebooks of large type. "I fear you are sorry you came," said Giles, "andthat you think I should have advised you more firmly than I did not tostay."
"Oh no, dear, dear friend," answered Grace, with a heaving bosom."Don't think that that is what I regret. What I regret is my enforcedtreatment of you--dislodging you, excluding you from your own house.Why should I not speak out? You know what I feel for you--what I havefelt for no other living man, what I shall never feel for a man again!But as I have vowed myself to somebody else than you, and cannot bereleased, I must behave as I do behave, and keep that vow. I am notbound to him by any divine law, after what he has done; but I havepromised, and I will pay."
The rest of the evening was passed in his handing her such things asshe would require the next day, and casual remarks thereupon, anoccupation which diverted her mind to some degree from pathetic viewsof her attitude towards him, and of her life in general. The onlyinfringement--if infringement it could be called--of his predeterminedbearing towards her was an involuntary pressing of her hand to his lipswhen she put it through the casement to bid him good-night. He knewshe was weeping, though he could not see her tears.
She again entreated his forgiveness for so selfishly appropriating thecottage. But it would only be for a day or two more, she thought,since go she must.
He replied, yearningly, "I--I don't like you to go away."
"Oh, Giles," said she, "I know--I know! But--I am a woman, and you area man. I cannot speak more plainly. 'Whatsoever things are pure,whatsoever things are of good report'--you know what is in my mind,because you know me so well."
"Yes, Grace, yes. I do not at all mean that the question between ushas not been settled by the fact of your marriage turning outhopelessly unalterable. I merely meant--well, a feeling no more."
"In a week, at the outside, I should be discovered if I stayed here:and I think that by law he could compel me to return to him."
"Yes; perhaps you are right. Go when you wish, dear Grace."
His last words that evening were a hopeful remark that all might bewell with her yet; that Mr. Fitzpiers would not intrude upon her life,if he found that his presence cost her so much pain. Then the windowwas closed, the shutters folded, and the rustle of his footsteps diedaway.
No sooner had she retired to rest that night than the wind began torise, and, after a few prefatory blasts, to be accompanied by rain.The wind grew more violent, and as the storm went on, it was difficultto believe that no opaque body, but only an invisible colorless thing,was trampling and climbing over the roof, making branches creak,springing out of the trees upon the chimney, popping its head into theflue, and shrieking and blaspheming at every corner of the walls. Asin the old story, the assailant was a spectre which could be felt butnot seen. She had never before been so struck with the devilry of agusty night in a wood, because she had never been so entirely alone inspirit as she was now. She seemed almost to be apart from herself--avacuous duplicate only. The recent self of physical animation andclear intentions was not there.
Sometimes a bough from an adjoining tree was swayed so low as to smitethe roof in the manner of a gigantic hand smiting the mouth of anadversary, to be followed by a trickle of rain, as blood from thewound. To all this weather Giles must be more or less exposed; howmuch, she did not know.
At last Grace could hardly endure the idea of such a hardship inrelation to him. Whatever he was suffering, it was she who had causedit; he vacated his house on account of her. She was not worth suchself-sacrifice; she should not have accepted it of him. And then, asher anxiety increased with increasing thought, there returned upon hermind some incidents of her late intercourse with him, which she hadheeded but little at the time. The look of his face--what had therebeen about his face which seemed different from its appearance as ofyore? Was it not thinner, less rich in hue, less like that of ripeautumn's brother to whom she had formerly compared him? And his voice;she had distinctly noticed a change in tone. And his gait; surely ithad been feebler, stiffer, more like the gait of a weary man. Thatslight occasional noise she had heard in the day, and attributed tosquirrels, it might have been his cough after all.
Thus conviction took root in her perturbed mind that Winterborne wasill, or had been so, and that he had carefully concealed his conditionfrom her that she might have no scruples about accepting a hospitalitywhich by the nature of the case expelled her entertainer.
"My own, own, true l----, my dear kind friend!" she cried to herself."Oh, it shall not be--it shall not be!"
She hastily wrapped herself up, and obtained a light, with which sheentered the adjoining room, the cot possessing only one floor. Settingdown the candle on the table here, she went to the door with the key inher hand, and placed it in the lock. Before turning it she paused, herfingers still clutching it; and pressing her other hand to herforehead, she fell into agitating thought.
A tattoo on the window, caused by the tree-droppings blowing againstit, brought her indecision to a close. She turned the key and openedthe door.
The darkness was intense, seeming to touch her pupils like a substance.She only now became aware how heavy the rainfall had been and was; thedripping of the eaves splashed like a fountain. She stood listeningwith parted lips, and holding the door in one hand, till her eyes,growing accustomed to the obscurity,
discerned the wild brandishing oftheir boughs by the adjoining trees. At last she cried loudly with aneffort, "Giles! you may come in!"
There was no immediate answer to her cry, and overpowered by her owntemerity, Grace retreated quickly, shut the door, and stood looking onthe floor. But it was not for long. She again lifted the latch, andwith far more determination than at first.
"Giles, Giles!" she cried, with the full strength of her voice, andwithout any of the shamefacedness that had characterized her first cry."Oh, come in--come in! Where are you? I have been wicked. I havethought too much of myself! Do you hear? I don't want to keep you outany longer. I cannot bear that you should suffer so. Gi-i-iles!"
A reply! It was a reply! Through the darkness and wind a voice reachedher, floating upon the weather as though a part of it.
"Here I am--all right. Don't trouble about me."
"Don't you want to come in? Are you not ill? I don't mind what theysay, or what they think any more."
"I am all right," he repeated. "It is not necessary for me to come.Good-night! good-night!"
Grace sighed, turned and shut the door slowly. Could she have beenmistaken about his health? Perhaps, after all, she had perceived achange in him because she had not seen him for so long. Time sometimesdid his ageing work in jerks, as she knew. Well, she had done all shecould. He would not come in. She retired to rest again.
