by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XXIII.
With this in view he took her out for a walk, a custom of his when hewished to say anything specially impressive. Their way was over thetop of that lofty ridge dividing their woodland from the ciderdistrict, whence they had in the spring beheld the miles of apple-treesin bloom. All was now deep green. The spot recalled to Grace's mindthe last occasion of her presence there, and she said, "The promise ofan enormous apple-crop is fulfilling itself, is it not? I supposeGiles is getting his mills and presses ready."
This was just what her father had not come there to talk about. Withoutreplying he raised his arm, and moved his finger till he fixed it at apoint. "There," he said, "you see that plantation reaching over thehill like a great slug, and just behind the hill a particularly greensheltered bottom? That's where Mr. Fitzpiers's family were lords ofthe manor for I don't know how many hundred years, and there stands thevillage of Buckbury Fitzpiers. A wonderful property 'twas--wonderful!"
"But they are not lords of the manor there now."
"Why, no. But good and great things die as well as little and foolish.The only ones representing the family now, I believe, are our doctorand a maiden lady living I don't know where. You can't help beinghappy, Grace, in allying yourself with such a romantical family.You'll feel as if you've stepped into history."
"We've been at Hintock as long as they've been at Buckbury; is it notso? You say our name occurs in old deeds continually."
"Oh yes--as yeomen, copyholders, and such like. But think how muchbetter this will be for 'ee. You'll be living a high intellectuallife, such as has now become natural to you; and though the doctor'spractice is small here, he'll no doubt go to a dashing town when he'sgot his hand in, and keep a stylish carriage, and you'll be brought toknow a good many ladies of excellent society. If you should ever meetme then, Grace, you can drive past me, looking the other way. Ishouldn't expect you to speak to me, or wish such a thing, unless ithappened to be in some lonely, private place where 'twouldn't lower yeat all. Don't think such men as neighbor Giles your equal. He and Ishall be good friends enough, but he's not for the like of you. He'slived our rough and homely life here, and his wife's life must be roughand homely likewise."
So much pressure could not but produce some displacement. As Grace wasleft very much to herself, she took advantage of one fine day beforeFitzpiers's return to drive into the aforesaid vale where stood thevillage of Buckbury Fitzpiers. Leaving her father's man at the innwith the horse and gig, she rambled onward to the ruins of a castle,which stood in a field hard by. She had no doubt that it representedthe ancient stronghold of the Fitzpiers family.
The remains were few, and consisted mostly of remnants of the lowervaulting, supported on low stout columns surmounted by the crochetcapital of the period. The two or three arches of these vaults thatwere still in position were utilized by the adjoining farmer as shelterfor his calves, the floor being spread with straw, amid which the youngcreatures rustled, cooling their thirsty tongues by licking the quaintNorman carving, which glistened with the moisture. It was adegradation of even such a rude form of art as this to be treatad sogrossly, she thought, and for the first time the family of Fitzpiersassumed in her imagination the hues of a melancholy romanticism.
It was soon time to drive home, and she traversed the distance with apreoccupied mind. The idea of so modern a man in science andaesthetics as the young surgeon springing out of relics so ancient wasa kind of novelty she had never before experienced. The combinationlent him a social and intellectual interest which she dreaded, so muchweight did it add to the strange influence he exercised upon herwhenever he came near her.
In an excitement which was not love, not ambition, rather a fearfulconsciousness of hazard in the air, she awaited his return.
Meanwhile her father was awaiting him also. In his house there was anold work on medicine, published towards the end of the last century,and to put himself in harmony with events Melbury spread this work onhis knees when he had done his day's business, and read about Galen,Hippocrates, and Herophilus--of the dogmatic, the empiric, thehermetical, and other sects of practitioners that have arisen inhistory; and thence proceeded to the classification of maladies and therules for their treatment, as laid down in this valuable book withabsolute precision. Melbury regretted that the treatise was so old,fearing that he might in consequence be unable to hold as complete aconversation as he could wish with Mr. Fitzpiers, primed, no doubt,with more recent discoveries.
The day of Fitzpiers's return arrived, and he sent to say that he wouldcall immediately. In the little time that was afforded for putting thehouse in order the sweeping of Melbury's parlor was as the sweeping ofthe parlor at the Interpreter's which wellnigh choked the Pilgrim. Atthe end of it Mrs. Melbury sat down, folded her hands and lips, andwaited. Her husband restlessly walked in and out from the timber-yard,stared at the interior of the room, jerked out "ay, ay," and retreatedagain. Between four and five Fitzpiers arrived, hitching his horse tothe hook outside the door.
As soon as he had walked in and perceived that Grace was not in theroom, he seemed to have a misgiving. Nothing less than her actualpresence could long keep him to the level of this impassionedenterprise, and that lacking he appeared as one who wished to retracehis steps.
He mechanically talked at what he considered a woodland matron's levelof thought till a rustling was heard on the stairs, and Grace came in.Fitzpiers was for once as agitated as she. Over and above the genuineemotion which she raised in his heart there hung the sense that he wascasting a die by impulse which he might not have thrown by judgment.
Mr. Melbury was not in the room. Having to attend to matters in theyard, he had delayed putting on his afternoon coat and waistcoat tillthe doctor's appearance, when, not wishing to be backward in receivinghim, he entered the parlor hastily buttoning up those garments.Grace's fastidiousness was a little distressed that Fitzpiers shouldsee by this action the strain his visit was putting upon her father;and to make matters worse for her just then, old Grammer seemed to havea passion for incessantly pumping in the back kitchen, leaving thedoors open so that the banging and splashing were distinct above theparlor conversation.
Whenever the chat over the tea sank into pleasant desultoriness Mr.Melbury broke in with speeches of labored precision on very remotetopics, as if he feared to let Fitzpiers's mind dwell critically on thesubject nearest the hearts of all. In truth a constrained manner wasnatural enough in Melbury just now, for the greatest interest of hislife was reaching its crisis. Could the real have been beheld insteadof the corporeal merely, the corner of the room in which he sat wouldhave been filled with a form typical of anxious suspense, large-eyed,tight-lipped, awaiting the issue. That paternal hopes and fears sointense should be bound up in the person of one child so peculiarlycircumstanced, and not have dispersed themselves over the larger fieldof a whole family, involved dangerous risks to future happiness.
Fitzpiers did not stay more than an hour, but that time had apparentlyadvanced his sentiments towards Grace, once and for all, from a vaguelyliquescent to an organic shape. She would not have accompanied him tothe door in response to his whispered "Come!" if her mother had notsaid in a matter-of-fact way, "Of course, Grace; go to the door withMr. Fitzpiers." Accordingly Grace went, both her parents remaining inthe room. When the young pair were in the great brick-floored hall thelover took the girl's hand in his, drew it under his arm, and thus ledher on to the door, where he stealthily kissed her.
She broke from him trembling, blushed and turned aside, hardly knowinghow things had advanced to this. Fitzpiers drove off, kissing his handto her, and waving it to Melbury who was visible through the window.Her father returned the surgeon's action with a great flourish of hisown hand and a satisfied smile.
The intoxication that Fitzpiers had, as usual, produced in Grace'sbrain during the visit passed off somewhat with his withdrawal. Shefelt like a woman who did not know what she had been doing for theprevious hour, but suppos
ed with trepidation that the afternoon'sproceedings, though vague, had amounted to an engagement betweenherself and the handsome, coercive, irresistible Fitzpiers.
This visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summerdays of that year. Grace was borne along upon a stream of reasonings,arguments, and persuasions, supplemented, it must be added, byinclinations of her own at times. No woman is without aspirations,which may be innocent enough within certain limits; and Grace had beenso trained socially, and educated intellectually, as to see clearlyenough a pleasure in the position of wife to such a man as Fitzpiers.His material standing of itself, either present or future, had littlein it to give her ambition, but the possibilities of a refined andcultivated inner life, of subtle psychological intercourse, had theircharm. It was this rather than any vulgar idea of marrying well whichcaused her to float with the current, and to yield to the immenseinfluence which Fitzpiers exercised over her whenever she shared hissociety.
Any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not sheloved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so intime.
One evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walktogether, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberiesof Hintock House--still deserted, and still blankly confronting withits sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes.Grace was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on oneof the stone sills--still warm with the sun that had been pouring itsrays upon them all the afternoon.
"This place would just do for us, would it not, dearest," said herbetrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade.
"Oh yes," said Grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had evercrossed her mind. "She is away from home still," Grace added in aminute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehowlost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower.
"Who is?--oh, you mean Mrs. Charmond. Do you know, dear, that at onetime I thought you lived here."
"Indeed!" said Grace. "How was that?"
He explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning hisdisappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on: "Well,never mind that. Now I want to ask you something. There is one detailof our wedding which I am sure you will leave to me. My inclination isnot to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokelsstaring round at us, and a droning parson reading."
"Where, then, can it be? At a church in town?"
"No. Not at a church at all. At a registry office. It is a quieter,snugger, and more convenient place in every way."
"Oh," said she, with real distress. "How can I be married except atchurch, and with all my dear friends round me?"
"Yeoman Winterborne among them."
"Yes--why not? You know there was nothing serious between him and me."
"You see, dear, a noisy bell-ringing marriage at church has thisobjection in our case: it would be a thing of report a long way round.Now I would gently, as gently as possible, indicate to you howinadvisable such publicity would be if we leave Hintock, and I purchasethe practice that I contemplate purchasing at Budmouth--hardly morethan twenty miles off. Forgive my saying that it will be far better ifnobody there knows where you come from, nor anything about yourparents. Your beauty and knowledge and manners will carry you anywhereif you are not hampered by such retrospective criticism."
"But could it not be a quiet ceremony, even at church?" she pleaded.
"I don't see the necessity of going there!" he said, a trifleimpatiently. "Marriage is a civil contract, and the shorter andsimpler it is made the better. People don't go to church when theytake a house, or even when they make a will."
"Oh, Edgar--I don't like to hear you speak like that."
"Well, well--I didn't mean to. But I have mentioned as much to yourfather, who has made no objection and why should you?"
She gave way, deeming the point one on which she ought to allowsentiment to give way to policy--if there were indeed policy in hisplan. But she was indefinably depressed as they walked homeward.