by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XXXII.
At nine o'clock the next morning Melbury dressed himself up in shiningbroadcloth, creased with folding and smelling of camphor, and startedfor Hintock House. He was the more impelled to go at once by theabsence of his son-in-law in London for a few days, to attend, reallyor ostensibly, some professional meetings. He said nothing of hisdestination either to his wife or to Grace, fearing that they mightentreat him to abandon so risky a project, and went out unobserved. Hehad chosen his time with a view, as he supposed, of convenientlycatching Mrs. Charmond when she had just finished her breakfast, beforeany other business people should be about, if any came. Ploddingthoughtfully onward, he crossed a glade lying between Little HintockWoods and the plantation which abutted on the park; and the spot beingopen, he was discerned there by Winterborne from the copse on the nexthill, where he and his men were working. Knowing his mission, theyounger man hastened down from the copse and managed to intercept thetimber-merchant.
"I have been thinking of this, sir," he said, "and I am of opinion thatit would be best to put off your visit for the present."
But Melbury would not even stop to hear him. His mind was made up, theappeal was to be made; and Winterborne stood and watched him sadly tillhe entered the second plantation and disappeared.
Melbury rang at the tradesmen's door of the manor-house, and was atonce informed that the lady was not yet visible, as indeed he mighthave guessed had he been anybody but the man he was. Melbury said hewould wait, whereupon the young man informed him in a neighborly waythat, between themselves, she was in bed and asleep.
"Never mind," said Melbury, retreating into the court, "I'll standabout here." Charged so fully with his mission, he shrank from contactwith anybody.
But he walked about the paved court till he was tired, and still nobodycame to him. At last he entered the house and sat down in a smallwaiting-room, from which he got glimpses of the kitchen corridor, andof the white-capped maids flitting jauntily hither and thither. Theyhad heard of his arrival, but had not seen him enter, and, imagininghim still in the court, discussed freely the possible reason of hiscalling. They marvelled at his temerity; for though most of thetongues which had been let loose attributed the chief blame-worthinessto Fitzpiers, these of her household preferred to regard their mistressas the deeper sinner.
Melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thornwalking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use.The scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but atragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. Through thisvision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here andthere, as an outer landscape through the high-colored scenes of astained window. He waited thus an hour, an hour and a half, two hours.He began to look pale and ill, whereupon the butler, who came in, askedhim to have a glass of wine. Melbury roused himself and said, "No, no.Is she almost ready?"
"She is just finishing breakfast," said the butler. "She will soon seeyou now. I am just going up to tell her you are here."
"What! haven't you told her before?" said Melbury.
"Oh no," said the other. "You see you came so very early."
At last the bell rang: Mrs. Charmond could see him. She was not in herprivate sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard hercoming from the front staircase, and she entered where he stood.
At this time of the morning Mrs. Charmond looked her full age and more.She might almost have been taken for the typical femme de trente ans,though she was really not more than seven or eight and twenty. Therebeing no fire in the room, she came in with a shawl thrown looselyround her shoulders, and obviously without the least suspicion thatMelbury had called upon any other errand than timber. Felice was,indeed, the only woman in the parish who had not heard the rumor of herown weaknesses; she was at this moment living in a fool's paradise inrespect of that rumor, though not in respect of the weaknessesthemselves, which, if the truth be told, caused her grave misgivings.
"Do sit down, Mr. Melbury. You have felled all the trees that were tobe purchased by you this season, except the oaks, I believe."
"Yes," said Melbury.
"How very nice! It must be so charming to work in the woods just now!"
She was too careless to affect an interest in an extraneous person'saffairs so consummately as to deceive in the manner of the perfectsocial machine. Hence her words "very nice," "so charming," wereuttered with a perfunctoriness that made them sound absurdly unreal.
"Yes, yes," said Melbury, in a reverie. He did not take a chair, andshe also remained standing. Resting upon his stick, he began: "Mrs.Charmond, I have called upon a more serious matter--at least tome--than tree-throwing. And whatever mistakes I make in my manner ofspeaking upon it to you, madam, do me the justice to set 'em down to mywant of practice, and not to my want of care."
Mrs. Charmond looked ill at ease. She might have begun to guess hismeaning; but apart from that, she had such dread of contact withanything painful, harsh, or even earnest, that his preliminaries alonewere enough to distress her. "Yes, what is it?" she said.
"I am an old man," said Melbury, "whom, somewhat late in life, Godthought fit to bless with one child, and she a daughter. Her motherwas a very dear wife to me, but she was taken away from us when thechild was young, and the child became precious as the apple of my eyeto me, for she was all I had left to love. For her sake entirely Imarried as second wife a homespun woman who had been kind as a motherto her. In due time the question of her education came on, and I said,'I will educate the maid well, if I live upon bread to do it.' Of herpossible marriage I could not bear to think, for it seemed like a deaththat she should cleave to another man, and grow to think his house herhome rather than mine. But I saw it was the law of nature that thisshould be, and that it was for the maid's happiness that she shouldhave a home when I was gone; and I made up my mind without a murmur tohelp it on for her sake. In my youth I had wronged my dead friend, andto make amends I determined to give her, my most precious possession,to my friend's son, seeing that they liked each other well. Things cameabout which made me doubt if it would be for my daughter's happiness todo this, inasmuch as the young man was poor, and she was delicatelyreared. Another man came and paid court to her--one her equal inbreeding and accomplishments; in every way it seemed to me that he onlycould give her the home which her training had made a necessity almost.I urged her on, and she married him. But, ma'am, a fatal mistake wasat the root of my reckoning. I found that this well-born gentleman Ihad calculated on so surely was not stanch of heart, and that thereinlay a danger of great sorrow for my daughter. Madam, he saw you, andyou know the rest....I have come to make no demands--to utter nothreats; I have come simply as a father in great grief about this onlychild, and I beseech you to deal kindly with my daughter, and to donothing which can turn her husband's heart away from her forever.Forbid him your presence, ma'am, and speak to him on his duty as onewith your power over him well can do, and I am hopeful that the rentbetween them may be patched up. For it is not as if you would lose byso doing; your course is far higher than the courses of a simpleprofessional man, and the gratitude you would win from me and mine byyour kindness is more than I can say."
Mrs. Charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation oncomprehending Melbury's story; hot and cold by turns, she had murmured,"Leave me, leave me!" But as he seemed to take no notice of this, hiswords began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said,with hurried, hot breath, "What has led you to think this of me? Whosays I have won your daughter's husband away from her? Some monstrouscalumnies are afloat--of which I have known nothing until now!"
Melbury started, and looked at her simply. "But surely, ma'am, youknow the truth better than I?"
Her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on herhandsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsicfilm. "Will you leave me to myself?" she said, with a faintness whichsuggested a guilty conscience. "This is
so utterly unexpected--youobtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation--"
"As God's in heaven, ma'am, that's not true. I made no pretence; and Ithought in reason you would know why I had come. This gossip--"
"I have heard nothing of it. Tell me of it, I say."
"Tell you, ma'am--not I. What the gossip is, no matter. What reallyis, you know. Set facts right, and the scandal will right of itself.But pardon me--I speak roughly; and I came to speak gently, to coaxyou, beg you to be my daughter's friend. She loved you once, ma'am;you began by liking her. Then you dropped her without a reason, and ithurt her warm heart more than I can tell ye. But you were within yourright as the superior, no doubt. But if you would consider herposition now--surely, surely, you would do her no harm!"
"Certainly I would do her no harm--I--" Melbury's eye met hers. It wascurious, but the allusion to Grace's former love for her seemed totouch her more than all Melbury's other arguments. "Oh, Melbury," sheburst out, "you have made me so unhappy! How could you come to me likethis! It is too dreadful! Now go away--go, go!"
"I will," he said, in a husky tone.
As soon as he was out of the room she went to a corner and there satand writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingledwith better sentiments.
Mrs. Charmond's mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods ofstress and storm. She had never so clearly perceived till now that hersoul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about allthis; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming ananimated impulse only, a passion incarnate. A fascination had led heron it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this waswhere she found herself--overshadowed with sudden night, as if atornado had passed by.
While she sat, or rather crouched, unhinged by the interview,lunch-time came, and then the early afternoon, almost without herconsciousness. Then "a strange gentleman who says it is not necessaryto give his name," was suddenly announced.
"I cannot see him, whoever he may be. I am not at home to anybody."
She heard no more of her visitor; and shortly after, in an attempt torecover some mental serenity by violent physical exercise, she put onher hat and cloak and went out-of-doors, taking a path which led her upthe slopes to the nearest spur of the wood. She disliked the woods,but they had the advantage of being a place in which she could walkcomparatively unobserved.