by Thomas Hardy
Grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by her husband, at the Crown Hotel, Shottsford-Forum, had been paid for and dismissed. The long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind than body, and she walked about her sitting-room in something of a hopeful mood. Mrs. Melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that her husband had returned from London. He had gone out, she said, to see a patient, as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had no dinner or tea. Grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicion of his whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of Mrs. Charmond’s rumored sorrows and plans of departure.
So the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. She had left Hintock in a turmoil of feeling after the revelation of Mrs. Charmond, and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. But she had thought the matter over, and had allowed her father’s influence to prevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that Edgar’s arrival had preceded hers.
By-and-by Mrs. Melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry and abruptness.
“I have something to tell — some bad news,” she said. “But you must not be alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. Edgar has been thrown off his horse. We don’t think he is hurt much. It happened in the wood the other side of Nellcombe Bottom, where ‘tis said the ghosts of the brothers walk.”
She went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the invented horrors that had been communicated by the boy. “I thought it better to tell you at once,” she added, “in case he should not be very well able to 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 few minutes, returning a negative to her step-mother’s inquiry if she could do anything for her. “But please go into the bedroom,” Grace said, on second thoughts, “and see if all is ready there — in case it is serious.” Mrs. Melbury thereupon called Grammer, and they did as directed, supplying the room with everything they could think of for the accommodation of an injured man.
Nobody was left in the lower part of the house. Not many minutes passed when Grace heard a knock at the door — a single knock, not loud enough to reach the ears of those in the bedroom. She went to the top of the stairs and said, faintly, “Come up,” knowing that the door stood, as usual in such houses, wide open.
Retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up the stairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voice revealed her to be Suke Damson, in great fright and sorrow. A streak of light from the partially closed door of Grace’s room fell upon her face as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale.
“Oh, Miss Melbury — I would say Mrs. Fitzpiers,” she said, wringing her hands. “This terrible news. Is he dead? Is he hurted very bad? Tell me; 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 put her hands to her now flushed face and head. Could she order Suke Damson down-stairs and out of the house? Her husband might be brought in at any moment, and what would happen? But could she order this genuinely grieved woman away?
There was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till Suke said, “Why don’t ye speak? Is he here? Is he dead? If so, why can’t I see him — would it be so very wrong?”
Before Grace had answered somebody else came to the door below — a foot-fall light as a roe’s. There was a hurried tapping upon the panel, as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought not whether a knocker were there or no. Without a pause, and possibly guided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascended the 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 lips whose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like one ready to sink on the floor with distress. “What is — the matter — tell me the worst! Can he live?” She looked at Grace imploringly, without perceiving poor Suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk away into the shade.
Mrs. Charmond’s little feet were covered with mud; she was quite unconscious of her appearance now. “I have heard such a dreadful report,” she went on; “I came to ascertain the truth of it. Is he — 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 seen him any more than you. I have heard a report only — not so bad as you think. 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 can have a better than either of you?” said Grace, with a delicate sting which was lost upon Felice Charmond now. “I repeat, I have only heard a less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how little, I cannot say. I pray God that it means not much — in common humanity. 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 heeding her mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was well, very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife’s regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for losing their hearts to her husband. But life, what was it, and who was she? She had, like the singer of the psalm of Asaph, been plagued and chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in order to please herself — the individual — ”offend against the generation,” as he would not?
“He is dying, perhaps,” blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron to her eyes.
In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of heart, all for a man who had wronged them — had never really behaved towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. Neither one but would have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. The tears which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. She turned to the balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept.
Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and letting the tears run down silently. While these three poor women stood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied themselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the court, and in a moment Melbury’s voice was heard calling to his stableman. Grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out into the 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, my dear, and have you got home safe? Why, you are better already! But you ought 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 as ever. A fall on the leaves didn’t hurt a spry fellow like him. He did not come this way,” he added, significantly. “I suppose he went to look for his horse. I tried to find him, but could not. But after seeing him go away under the trees I found the horse, and have led it home for safety. So he must walk. Now, don’t you stay out here in this night air.”
She returned to the house with her father. When she had again ascended to the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a great relief to her to find that both Petticoat the First and Petticoat the Second of her Bien-aime had silently disappeared. They had, in all probability, heard the words of her father, and dep
arted with their anxieties relieved.
Presently her parents came up to Grace, and busied themselves to see that she was comfortable. Perceiving soon that she would prefer to be left alone they went away.
Grace waited on. The clock raised its voice now and then, but her husband did not return. At her father’s usual hour for retiring he again came in to see her. “Do not stay up,” she said, as soon as he entered. “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 hardly think 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. “Why could you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? He is my husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need not provoke him unnecessarily. First you induce me to accept him, and then you do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!”
“How can you speak so unjustly to me, Grace?” said Melbury, with indignant sorrow. “I divide you from your husband, indeed! You little think — ”
He was inclined to say more — to tell her the whole story of the encounter, and that the provocation he had received had lain entirely in hearing her despised. But it would have greatly distressed her, and he 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, broken only by the occasional skirr of a halter in Melbury’s stables. Despite her father’s advice Grace still waited up. But nobody came.
It was a critical time in Grace’s emotional life that night. She thought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgot Winterborne.
“How these unhappy women must have admired Edgar!” she said to herself. “How attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he is attractive.” The possibility is that, piqued by rivalry, these ideas might have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a show of the least reciprocity in Fitzpiers. There was, in truth, a love-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 mistaken about the condition of Fitzpiers. People do not fall headlong on stumps of underwood with impunity. Had the old man been able to watch Fitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising and walking into the thicket he dropped blood as he went; that he had not proceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and, raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Grace was not the only one who watched and meditated in Hintock that night. Felice Charmond was in no mood to retire to rest at a customary hour; and over her drawing-room fire at the Manor House she sat as motionless and in as deep a reverie as Grace in her little apartment at the homestead.
Having caught ear of Melbury’s intelligence while she stood on the landing at his house, and been eased of much of her mental distress, her sense of personal decorum returned upon her with a rush. She descended the stairs and left the door like a ghost, keeping close to the walls of the building till she got round to the gate of the quadrangle, through which she noiselessly passed almost before Grace and her father had finished their discourse. Suke Damson had thought it well to imitate her superior in this respect, and, descending the back stairs as Felice descended the front, went out at the side door and home to her cottage.
Once outside Melbury’s gates Mrs. Charmond ran with all her speed to the Manor House, without stopping or turning her head, and splitting her thin boots in her haste. She entered her own dwelling, as she had emerged from it, by the drawing-room window. In other circumstances she would have felt some timidity at undertaking such an unpremeditated excursion alone; but her anxiety for another had cast out her fear for herself.
Everything in her drawing-room was just as she had left it — the candles still burning, the casement closed, and the shutters gently pulled to, so as to hide the state of the window from the cursory glance of a servant entering the apartment. She had been gone about three-quarters of an hour by the clock, and nobody seemed to have discovered her absence. Tired in body but tense in mind, she sat down, palpitating, round-eyed, bewildered at what she had done.
She had been betrayed by affrighted love into a visit which, now that the emotion instigating it had calmed down under her belief that Fitzpiers was in no danger, was the saddest surprise to her. This was how she had set about doing her best to escape her passionate bondage to him! Somehow, in declaring to Grace and to herself the unseemliness of her infatuation, she had grown a convert to its irresistibility. If Heaven would only give her strength; but Heaven never did! One thing was indispensable; she must go away from Hintock if she meant to withstand further temptation. The struggle was too wearying, too hopeless, while she remained. It was but a continual capitulation of conscience to what she dared not name.
By degrees, as she sat, Felice’s mind — helped perhaps by the anticlimax of learning that her lover was unharmed after all her fright about him — grew wondrously strong in wise resolve. For the moment she was in a mood, in the words of Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu, “to run mad with discretion;” and was so persuaded that discretion lay in departure that she wished to set about going that very minute. Jumping up from her seat, she began to gather together some small personal knick-knacks scattered about the room, to feel that preparations were really in train.
While moving here and there she fancied that she heard a slight noise out-of-doors, and stood still. Surely it was a tapping at the window. A thought entered her mind, and burned her cheek. He had come to that window before; yet was it possible that he should dare to do so now! All the servants were in bed, and in the ordinary course of affairs she would have retired also. Then she remembered that on stepping in by the casement and closing it, she had not fastened the window-shutter, so that a streak of light from the interior of the room might have revealed her vigil to an observer on the lawn. How all things conspired against her keeping faith with Grace!
The tapping recommenced, light as from the bill of a little bird; her illegitimate hope overcame her vow; she went and pulled back the shutter, determining, however, to shake her head at him and keep the casement securely closed.
What she saw outside might have struck terror into a heart stouter than a helpless woman’s at midnight. In the centre of the lowest pane of the window, close to the glass, was a human face, which she barely recognized as the face of Fitzpiers. It was surrounded with the darkness of the night without, corpse-like in its pallor, and covered with blood. As disclosed in the square area of the pane it met her frightened eyes like a replica of the Sudarium of St. Veronica.
He moved his lips, and looked at her imploringly. Her rapid mind pieced together in an instant a possible concatenation of events which might have led to this tragical issue. She unlatched the casement with a terrified hand, and bending down to where he was crouching, pressed her face to his with passionate solicitude. She assisted him into the room without a word, to do which it was almost necessary to lift him bodily. Quickly closing the window and fastening the shutters, she bent over him breathlessly.
“Are you hurt much — much?” she cried, faintly. “Oh, oh, how is this!”
“Rather much — but don’t be frightened,” he answered in a difficult whisper, and turning himself to obtain an easier position if possible. “A little water, please.”
She ran across into the dining-room, and brought a bottle and glass, from which he eagerly drank. He could then speak much better, and with her help got upon the nearest couch.
“Are you dying, Edgar?”
she said. “Do speak to me!”
“I am half dead,” said Fitzpiers. “But perhaps I shall get over it....It is chiefly loss of blood.”
“But I thought your fall did not hurt you,” said she. “Who did this?”
“Felice — my father-in-law!...I have crawled to you more than a mile on my hands and knees — God, I thought I should never have got here!...I have come to you — be-cause you are the only friend — I have in the world now....I can never go back to Hintock — never — to the roof of the Melburys! Not poppy nor mandragora will ever medicine this bitter feud!...If I were only well again — ”
“Let me bind your head, now that you have rested.”
“Yes — but wait a moment — it has stopped bleeding, fortunately, or I should be a dead man before now. While in the wood I managed to make a tourniquet of some half-pence and my handkerchief, as well as I could in the dark....But listen, dear Felice! Can you hide me till I am well? Whatever comes, I can be seen in Hintock no more. My practice is nearly gone, you know — and after this I would not care to recover it if I could.”
By this time Felice’s tears began to blind her. Where were now her discreet plans for sundering their lives forever? To administer to him in his pain, and trouble, and poverty, was her single thought. The first step was to hide him, and she asked herself where. A place occurred to her mind.
She got him some wine from the dining-room, which strengthened him much. Then she managed to remove his boots, and, as he could now keep himself upright by leaning upon her on one side and a walking-stick on the other, they went thus in slow march out of the room and up the stairs. At the top she took him along a gallery, pausing whenever he required rest, and thence up a smaller staircase to the least used part of the house, where she unlocked a door. Within was a lumber-room, containing abandoned furniture of all descriptions, built up in piles which obscured the light of the windows, and formed between them nooks and lairs in which a person would not be discerned even should an eye gaze in at the door. The articles were mainly those that had belonged to the previous owner of the house, and had been bought in by the late Mr. Charmond at the auction; but changing fashion, and the tastes of a young wife, had caused them to be relegated to this dungeon.
