The Woodlanders

by Thomas Hardy

  CHAPTER XLV.

  Weeks and months of mourning for Winterborne had been passed by Gracein the soothing monotony of the memorial act to which she and Marty haddevoted themselves. Twice a week the pair went in the dusk to GreatHintock, and, like the two mourners in Cymbeline, sweetened his sadgrave with their flowers and their tears. Sometimes Grace thought thatit was a pity neither one of them had been his wife for a little while,and given the world a copy of him who was so valuable in their eyes.Nothing ever had brought home to her with such force as this death howlittle acquirements and culture weigh beside sterling personalcharacter. While her simple sorrow for his loss took a softer edge withthe lapse of the autumn and winter seasons, her self-reproach at havinghad a possible hand in causing it knew little abatement.

  Little occurred at Hintock during these months of the fall and decay ofthe leaf. Discussion of the almost contemporaneous death of Mrs.Charmond abroad had waxed and waned. Fitzpiers had had a marvellousescape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, throughthe accident of their having parted just before under the influence ofMarty South's letter--the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature.

  Her body was not brought home. It seemed to accord well with thefitful fever of that impassioned woman's life that she should not havefound a native grave. She had enjoyed but a life-interest in theestate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of herhusband's--one who knew not Felice, one whose purpose seemed to be toblot out every vestige of her.

  On a certain day in February--the cheerful day of St. Valentine, infact--a letter reached Mrs. Fitzpiers, which had been mentally promisedher for that particular day a long time before.

  It announced that Fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where hehad obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medicalman, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not setthem right. He had thought fit to communicate with her on that day oftender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining asubstantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forgetthe past and bring herself to join him.

  There the practical part ended; he then went on--

  "My last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear Graceand dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. You may beabsolutely indifferent to what I say, but let me say it: I have neverloved any woman alive or dead as I love, respect, and honor you at thispresent moment. What you told me in the pride and haughtiness of yourheart I never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; buteven if I had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you.Is there any use in telling you--no, there is not--that I dream of yourripe lips more frequently than I say my prayers; that the old familiarrustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me?If you could condescend even only to see me again you would bebreathing life into a corpse. My pure, pure Grace, modest as aturtledove, how came I ever to possess you? For the sake of beingpresent in your mind on this lovers' day, I think I would almost ratherhave you hate me a little than not think of me at all. You may call myfancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that 'nature is onein love, and where 'tis fine it sends some instance of itself.' I willnot intrude upon you further now. Make me a little bit happy bysending back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to ashort interview. I will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance,if you will only afford me this slight means of making a fewexplanations, and of putting my position before you. Believe me, inspite of all you may do or feel,

  Your lover always (once your husband),

  "E."

  It was, oddly enough, the first occasion, or nearly the first on whichGrace had ever received a love-letter from him, his courtship havingtaken place under conditions which rendered letter-writing unnecessary.Its perusal, therefore, had a certain novelty for her. She thoughtthat, upon the whole, he wrote love-letters very well. But the chiefrational interest of the letter to the reflective Grace lay in thechance that such a meeting as he proposed would afford her of settingher doubts at rest, one way or the other, on her actual share inWinterborne's death. The relief of consulting a skilled mind, the oneprofessional man who had seen Giles at that time, would be immense. Asfor that statement that she had uttered in her disdainful grief, whichat the time she had regarded as her triumph, she was quite prepared toadmit to him that his belief was the true one; for in wronging herselfas she did when she made it, she had done what to her was a far moreserious thing, wronged Winterborne's memory.

  Without consulting her father, or any one in the house or out of it,Grace replied to the letter. She agreed to meet Fitzpiers on twoconditions, of which the first was that the place of meeting should bethe top of Rubdown Hill, the second that he would not object to MartySouth accompanying her.

  Whatever part, much or little, there may have been in Fitzpiers'sso-called valentine to his wife, he felt a delight as of the burstingof spring when her brief reply came. It was one of the few pleasuresthat he had experienced of late years at all resembling those of hisearly youth. He promptly replied that he accepted the conditions, andnamed the day and hour at which he would be on the spot she mentioned.

  A few minutes before three on the appointed day found him climbing thewell-known hill, which had been the axis of so many critical movementsin their lives during his residence at Hintock.

  The sight of each homely and well-remembered object swelled the regretthat seldom left him now. Whatever paths might lie open to his future,the soothing shades of Hintock were forbidden him forever as apermanent dwelling-place.

  He longed for the society of Grace. But to lay offerings on herslighted altar was his first aim, and until her propitiation wascomplete he would constrain her in no way to return to him. The leastreparation that he could make, in a case where he would gladly havemade much, would be to let her feel herself absolutely free to choosebetween living with him and without him.

  Moreover, a subtlist in emotions, he cultivated as under glassesstrange and mournful pleasures that he would not willingly let die justat present. To show any forwardness in suggesting a modus vivendi toGrace would be to put an end to these exotics. To be the vassal of hersweet will for a time, he demanded no more, and found solace in thecontemplation of the soft miseries she caused him.

  Approaching the hill-top with a mind strung to these notions, Fitzpiersdiscerned a gay procession of people coming over the crest, and was notlong in perceiving it to be a wedding-party.

  Though the wind was keen the women were in light attire, and theflowered waistcoats of the men had a pleasing vividness of pattern.Each of the gentler ones clung to the arm of her partner so tightly asto have with him one step, rise, swing, gait, almost one centre ofgravity. In the buxom bride Fitzpiers recognized no other than SukeDamson, who in her light gown looked a giantess; the small husbandbeside her he saw to be Tim Tangs.

  Fitzpiers could not escape, for they had seen him; though of all thebeauties of the world whom he did not wish to meet Suke was the chief.But he put the best face on the matter that he could and came on, theapproaching company evidently discussing him and his separation fromMrs. Fitzpiers. As the couples closed upon him he expressed hiscongratulations.

  "We be just walking round the parishes to show ourselves a bit," saidTim. "First we het across to Delborough, then athwart to here, andfrom here we go to Rubdown and Millshot, and then round by thecross-roads home. Home says I, but it won't be that long! We be offnext month."

  "Indeed. Where to?"

  Tim informed him that they were going to New Zealand. Not but that hewould have been contented with Hintock, but his wife was ambitious andwanted to leave, so he had given way.

  "Then good-by," said Fitzpiers; "I may not see you again." He shookhands with Tim and turned to the bride. "Good-by, Suke," he said,taking her hand also. "I wish you and your husband prosperity in thecountry you have chosen." With this he left them, and hastened on tohis appointme
nt.

  The wedding-party re-formed and resumed march likewise. But inrestoring his arm to Suke, Tim noticed that her full and bloomingcountenance had undergone a change. "Holloa! me dear--what's thematter?" said Tim.

  "Nothing to speak o'," said she. But to give the lie to her assertionshe was seized with lachrymose twitches, that soon produced a dribblingface.

  "How--what the devil's this about!" exclaimed the bridegroom.

  "She's a little wee bit overcome, poor dear!" said the firstbridesmaid, unfolding her handkerchief and wiping Suke's eyes.

  "I never did like parting from people!" said Suke, as soon as she couldspeak.

  "Why him in particular?"

  "Well--he's such a clever doctor, that 'tis a thousand pities wesha'n't see him any more! There'll be no such clever doctor as he inNew Zealand, if I should require one; and the thought o't got thebetter of my feelings!"

  They walked on, but Tim's face had grown rigid and pale, for herecalled slight circumstances, disregarded at the time of theiroccurrence. The former boisterous laughter of the wedding-party at thegroomsman's jokes was heard ringing through the woods no more.

  By this time Fitzpiers had advanced on his way to the top of the hill,where he saw two figures emerging from the bank on the right hand.These were the expected ones, Grace and Marty South, who had evidentlycome there by a short and secret path through the wood. Grace wasmuffled up in her winter dress, and he thought that she had neverlooked so seductive as at this moment, in the noontide bright butheatless sun, and the keen wind, and the purplish-gray masses ofbrushwood around.

  Fitzpiers continued to regard the nearing picture, till at length theirglances met for a moment, when she demurely sent off hers at a tangentand gave him the benefit of her three-quarter face, while withcourteous completeness of conduct he lifted his hat in a large arc.Marty dropped behind; and when Fitzpiers held out his hand, Gracetouched it with her fingers.

  "I have agreed to be here mostly because I wanted to ask you somethingimportant," said Mrs. Fitzpiers, her intonation modulating in adirection that she had not quite wished it to take.

  "I am most attentive," said her husband. "Shall we take to the woodfor privacy?"

  Grace demurred, and Fitzpiers gave in, and they kept the public road.

  At any rate she would take his arm? This also was gravely negatived,the refusal being audible to Marty.

  "Why not?" he inquired.

  "Oh, Mr. Fitzpiers--how can you ask?"

  "Right, right," said he, his effusiveness shrivelled up.

  As they walked on she returned to her inquiry. "It is about a matterthat may perhaps be unpleasant to you. But I think I need not considerthat too carefully."

  "Not at all," said Fitzpiers, heroically.

  She then took him back to the time of poor Winterborne's death, andrelated the precise circumstances amid which his fatal illness had comeupon him, particularizing the dampness of the shelter to which he hadbetaken himself, his concealment from her of the hardships that he wasundergoing, all that he had put up with, all that he had done for herin his scrupulous considerateness. The retrospect brought her to tearsas she asked him if he thought that the sin of having driven him to hisdeath was upon her.

  Fitzpiers could hardly help showing his satisfaction at what hernarrative indirectly revealed, the actual harmlessness of an escapadewith her lover, which had at first, by her own showing, looked sograve, and he did not care to inquire whether that harmlessness hadbeen the result of aim or of accident. With regard to her question, hedeclared that in his judgment no human being could answer it. Hethought that upon the whole the balance of probabilities turned in herfavor. Winterborne's apparent strength, during the last months of hislife, must have been delusive. It had often occurred that after afirst attack of that insidious disease a person's apparent recovery wasa physiological mendacity.

  The relief which came to Grace lay almost as much in sharing herknowledge of the particulars with an intelligent mind as in theassurances Fitzpiers gave her. "Well, then, to put this case beforeyou, and obtain your professional opinion, was chiefly why I consentedto come here to-day," said she, when he had reached the aforesaidconclusion.

  "For no other reason at all?" he asked, ruefully.

  "It was nearly the whole."

  They stood and looked over a gate at twenty or thirty starlings feedingin the grass, and he started the talk again by saying, in a low voice,"And yet I love you more than ever I loved you in my life."

  Grace did not move her eyes from the birds, and folded her delicatelips as if to keep them in subjection.

  "It is a different kind of love altogether," said he. "Lesspassionate; more profound. It has nothing to do with the materialconditions of the object at all; much to do with her character andgoodness, as revealed by closer observation. 'Love talks with betterknowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.'"

  "That's out of 'Measure for Measure,'" said she, slyly.

  "Oh yes--I meant it as a citation," blandly replied Fitzpiers. "Well,then, why not give me a very little bit of your heart again?"

  The crash of a felled tree in the remote depths of the wood recalledthe past at that moment, and all the homely faithfulness ofWinterborne. "Don't ask it! My heart is in the grave with Giles," shereplied, stanchly.

  "Mine is with you--in no less deep a grave, I fear, according to that."

  "I am very sorry; but it cannot be helped."

  "How can you be sorry for me, when you wilfully keep open the grave?"

  "Oh no--that's not so," returned Grace, quickly, and moved to go awayfrom him.

  "But, dearest Grace," said he, "you have condescended to come; and Ithought from it that perhaps when I had passed through a long state ofprobation you would be generous. But if there can be no hope of ourgetting completely reconciled, treat me gently--wretch though I am."

  "I did not say you were a wretch, nor have I ever said so."

  "But you have such a contemptuous way of looking at me that I fear youthink so."

  Grace's heart struggled between the wish not to be harsh and the fearthat she might mislead him. "I cannot look contemptuous unless I feelcontempt," she said, evasively. "And all I feel is lovelessness."

  "I have been very bad, I know," he returned. "But unless you canreally love me again, Grace, I would rather go away from you forever.I don't want you to receive me again for duty's sake, or anything ofthat sort. If I had not cared more for your affection and forgivenessthan my own personal comfort, I should never have come back here. Icould have obtained a practice at a distance, and have lived my ownlife without coldness or reproach. But I have chosen to return to theone spot on earth where my name is tarnished--to enter the house of aman from whom I have had worse treatment than from any other manalive--all for you!"

  This was undeniably true, and it had its weight with Grace, who beganto look as if she thought she had been shockingly severe.

  "Before you go," he continued, "I want to know your pleasure aboutme--what you wish me to do, or not to do."

  "You are independent of me, and it seems a mockery to ask that. Far beit from me to advise. But I will think it over. I rather need advicemyself than stand in a position to give it."

  "YOU don't need advice, wisest, dearest woman that ever lived. If youdid--"

  "Would you give it to me?"

  "Would you act upon what I gave?"

  "That's not a fair inquiry," said she, smiling despite her gravity. "Idon't mind hearing it--what you do really think the most correct andproper course for me."

  "It is so easy for me to say, and yet I dare not, for it would beprovoking you to remonstrances."

  Knowing, of course, what the advice would be, she did not press himfurther, and was about to beckon Marty forward and leave him, when heinterrupted her with, "Oh, one moment, dear Grace--you will meet meagain?"

  She eventually agreed to see him that day fortnight. Fitzpiersexpostulated at the interval, but the half-alarmed earnestness wit
hwhich she entreated him not to come sooner made him say hastily that hesubmitted to her will--that he would regard her as a friend only,anxious for his reform and well-being, till such time as she mightallow him to exceed that privilege.

  All this was to assure her; it was only too clear that he had not wonher confidence yet. It amazed Fitzpiers, and overthrew all hisdeductions from previous experience, to find that this girl, though shehad been married to him, could yet be so coy. Notwithstanding a certainfascination that it carried with it, his reflections were sombre as hewent homeward; he saw how deep had been his offence to produce so greata wariness in a gentle and once unsuspicious soul.

  He was himself too fastidious to care to coerce her. To be an objectof misgiving or dislike to a woman who shared his home was what hecould not endure the thought of. Life as it stood was more tolerable.

  When he was gone, Marty joined Mrs. Fitzpiers. She would fain haveconsulted Marty on the question of Platonic relations with her formerhusband, as she preferred to regard him. But Marty showed no greatinterest in their affairs, so Grace said nothing. They came onward, andsaw Melbury standing at the scene of the felling which had been audibleto them, when, telling Marty that she wished her meeting with Mr.Fitzpiers to be kept private, she left the girl to join her father. Atany rate, she would consult him on the expediency of occasionallyseeing her husband.

  Her father was cheerful, and walked by her side as he had done inearlier days. "I was thinking of you when you came up," he said. "Ihave considered that what has happened is for the best. Since yourhusband is gone away, and seems not to wish to trouble you, why, lethim go, and drop out of your life. Many women are worse off. You canlive here comfortably enough, and he can emigrate, or do what he likesfor his good. I wouldn't mind sending him the further sum of money hemight naturally expect to come to him, so that you may not be botheredwith him any more. He could hardly have gone on living here withoutspeaking to me, or meeting me; and that would have been very unpleasanton both sides."

  These remarks checked her intention. There was a sense of weakness infollowing them by saying that she had just met her husband byappointment. "Then you would advise me not to communicate with him?"she observed.

  "I shall never advise ye again. You are your own mistress--do as youlike. But my opinion is that if you don't live with him, you hadbetter live without him, and not go shilly-shallying and playingbopeep. You sent him away; and now he's gone. Very well; trouble himno more."

  Grace felt a guiltiness--she hardly knew why--and made no confession.