by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XLII.
The next morning Grace was at the window early. She felt determined tosee him somehow that day, and prepared his breakfast eagerly. Eighto'clock struck, and she had remembered that he had not come to arouseher by a knocking, as usual, her own anxiety having caused her to stir.
The breakfast was set in its place without. But he did not arrive totake it; and she waited on. Nine o'clock arrived, and the breakfastwas cold; and still there was no Giles. A thrush, that had beenrepeating itself a good deal on an opposite bush for some time, cameand took a morsel from the plate and bolted it, waited, looked around,and took another. At ten o'clock she drew in the tray, and sat down toher own solitary meal. He must have been called away on businessearly, the rain having cleared off.
Yet she would have liked to assure herself, by thoroughly exploring theprecincts of the hut, that he was nowhere in its vicinity; but as theday was comparatively fine, the dread lest some stray passenger orwoodman should encounter her in such a reconnoitre paralyzed her wish.The solitude was further accentuated to-day by the stopping of theclock for want of winding, and the fall into the chimney-corner offlakes of soot loosened by the rains. At noon she heard a slightrustling outside the window, and found that it was caused by an eftwhich had crept out of the leaves to bask in the last sun-rays thatwould be worth having till the following May.
She continually peeped out through the lattice, but could see little.In front lay the brown leaves of last year, and upon them someyellowish-green ones of this season that had been prematurely blowndown by the gale. Above stretched an old beech, with vast armpits, andgreat pocket-holes in its sides where branches had been amputated inpast times; a black slug was trying to climb it. Dead boughs werescattered about like ichthyosauri in a museum, and beyond them wereperishing woodbine stems resembling old ropes.
From the other window all she could see were more trees, jacketed withlichen and stockinged with moss. At their roots were stemless yellowfungi like lemons and apricots, and tall fungi with more stem thanstool. Next were more trees close together, wrestling for existence,their branches disfigured with wounds resulting from their mutualrubbings and blows. It was the struggle between these neighbors thatshe had heard in the night. Beneath them were the rotting stumps ofthose of the group that had been vanquished long ago, rising from theirmossy setting like decayed teeth from green gums. Farther on wereother tufts of moss in islands divided by the shed leaves--variety uponvariety, dark green and pale green; moss-like little fir-trees, likeplush, like malachite stars, like nothing on earth except moss.
The strain upon Grace's mind in various ways was so great on this themost desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would bewell-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. Theevening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found anopening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiatedgauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, andthrowing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beechthat they were turned to gory hues. When night at last arrived, andwith it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down withsuspense.
The simple evening meal, partly tea, partly supper, which Grace hadprepared, stood waiting upon the hearth; and yet Giles did not come.It was now nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. As the roomgrew darker, and only the firelight broke against the gloom of thewalls, she was convinced that it would be beyond her staying power topass the night without hearing from him or from somebody. Yet eighto'clock drew on, and his form at the window did not appear.
The meal remained untasted. Suddenly rising from before the hearth ofsmouldering embers, where she had been crouching with her hands claspedover her knees, she crossed the room, unlocked the door, and listened.Every breath of wind had ceased with the decline of day, but the rainhad resumed the steady dripping of the night before. Grace might havestood there five minutes when she fancied she heard that old sound, acough, at no great distance; and it was presently repeated. If it wereWinterborne's, he must be near her; why, then, had he not visited her?
A horrid misgiving that he could not visit her took possession ofGrace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hangingabove her head. To light it and go in the direction of the sound wouldbe the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions madeher hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at furthersounds from the same quarter.
They were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, butgradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. It was anendless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature indeep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap againststones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice wasWinterborne's. Yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; forthough he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied.
A dreadful enlightenment spread through the mind of Grace. "Oh," shecried, in her anguish, as she hastily prepared herself to go out, "howselfishly correct I am always--too, too correct! Cruel propriety iskilling the dearest heart that ever woman clasped to her own."
While speaking thus to herself she had lit the lantern, and hasteningout without further thought, took the direction whence the mutteringshad proceeded. The course was marked by a little path, which ended ata distance of about forty yards in a small erection of hurdles, notmuch larger than a shock of corn, such as were frequent in the woodsand copses when the cutting season was going on. It was too slighteven to be called a hovel, and was not high enough to stand upright in;appearing, in short, to be erected for the temporary shelter of fuel.The side towards Grace was open, and turning the light upon theinterior, she beheld what her prescient fear had pictured in snatchesall the way thither.
Upon the straw within, Winterborne lay in his clothes, just as she hadseen him during the whole of her stay here, except that his hat wasoff, and his hair matted and wild.
Both his clothes and the straw were saturated with rain. His arms wereflung over his head; his face was flushed to an unnatural crimson. Hiseyes had a burning brightness, and though they met her own, sheperceived that he did not recognize her.
"Oh, my Giles," she cried, "what have I done to you!"
But she stopped no longer even to reproach herself. She saw that thefirst thing to be thought of was to get him indoors.
How Grace performed that labor she never could have exactly explained.But by dint of clasping her arms round him, rearing him into a sittingposture, and straining her strength to the uttermost, she put him onone of the hurdles that was loose alongside, and taking the end of itin both her hands, dragged him along the path to the entrance of thehut, and, after a pause for breath, in at the door-way.
It was somewhat singular that Giles in his semi-conscious stateacquiesced unresistingly in all that she did. But he never for amoment recognized her--continuing his rapid conversation to himself,and seeming to look upon her as some angel, or other supernaturalcreature of the visionary world in which he was mentally living. Theundertaking occupied her more than ten minutes; but by that time, toher great thankfulness, he was in the inner room, lying on the bed, hisdamp outer clothing removed.
Then the unhappy Grace regarded him by the light of the candle. Therewas something in his look which agonized her, in the rush of histhoughts, accelerating their speed from minute to minute. He seemed tobe passing through the universe of ideas like a comet--erratic,inapprehensible, untraceable.
Grace's distraction was almost as great as his. In a few moments shefirmly believed he was dying. Unable to withstand her impulse, sheknelt down beside him, kissed his hands and his face and his hair,exclaiming, in a low voice, "How could I? How could I?"
Her timid morality had, indeed, underrated his chivalry till now,though she knew him so well. The purity of his nature, his freedomfrom the grosser passions, his scrupulous delicacy, had never beenfully understood by Grace till this strange self-sacrifice in lonelyjuxtaposition to her ow
n person was revealed. The perception of itadded something that was little short of reverence to the deepaffection for him of a woman who, herself, had more of Artemis than ofAphrodite in her constitution.
All that a tender nurse could do, Grace did; and the power to expressher solicitude in action, unconscious though the sufferer was, broughther mournful satisfaction. She bathed his hot head, wiped hisperspiring hands, moistened his lips, cooled his fiery eyelids, spongedhis heated skin, and administered whatever she could find in the housethat the imagination could conceive as likely to be in any wayalleviating. That she might have been the cause, or partially thecause, of all this, interfused misery with her sorrow.
Six months before this date a scene, almost similar in its mechanicalparts, had been enacted at Hintock House. It was between a pair ofpersons most intimately connected in their lives with these. Outwardlylike as it had been, it was yet infinite in spiritual difference,though a woman's devotion had been common to both.
Grace rose from her attitude of affection, and, bracing her energies,saw that something practical must immediately be done. Much as shewould have liked, in the emotion of the moment, to keep him entirely toherself, medical assistance was necessary while there remained apossibility of preserving him alive. Such assistance was fatal to herown concealment; but even had the chance of benefiting him been lessthan it was, she would have run the hazard for his sake. The questionwas, where should she get a medical man, competent and near?
There was one such man, and only one, within accessible distance; a manwho, if it were possible to save Winterborne's life, had the brain mostlikely to do it. If human pressure could bring him, that man ought tobe brought to the sick Giles's side. The attempt should be made.
Yet she dreaded to leave her patient, and the minutes raced past, andyet she postponed her departure. At last, when it was after eleveno'clock, Winterborne fell into a fitful sleep, and it seemed to affordher an opportunity.
She hastily made him as comfortable as she could, put on her things,cut a new candle from the bunch hanging in the cupboard, and having setit up, and placed it so that the light did not fall upon his eyes, sheclosed the door and started.
The spirit of Winterborne seemed to keep her company and banish allsense of darkness from her mind. The rains had imparted aphosphorescence to the pieces of touchwood and rotting leaves that layabout her path, which, as scattered by her feet, spread abroad likespilt milk. She would not run the hazard of losing her way by plunginginto any short, unfrequented track through the denser parts of thewoodland, but followed a more open course, which eventually brought herto the highway. Once here, she ran along with great speed, animated bya devoted purpose which had much about it that was stoical; and it waswith scarcely any faltering of spirit that, after an hour's progress,she passed over Rubdown Hill, and onward towards that same Hintock, andthat same house, out of which she had fled a few days before inirresistible alarm. But that had happened which, above all other thingsof chance and change, could make her deliberately frustrate her plan offlight and sink all regard of personal consequences.
One speciality of Fitzpiers's was respected by Grace as much asever--his professional skill. In this she was right. Had hispersistence equalled his insight, instead of being the spasmodic andfitful thing it was, fame and fortune need never have remained a wishwith him. His freedom from conventional errors and crusted prejudiceshad, indeed, been such as to retard rather than accelerate his advancein Hintock and its neighborhood, where people could not believe thatnature herself effected cures, and that the doctor's business was onlyto smooth the way.
It was past midnight when Grace arrived opposite her father's house,now again temporarily occupied by her husband, unless he had alreadygone away. Ever since her emergence from the denser plantations aboutWinterborne's residence a pervasive lightness had hung in the dampautumn sky, in spite of the vault of cloud, signifying that a moon ofsome age was shining above its arch. The two white gates were distinct,and the white balls on the pillars, and the puddles and damp ruts leftby the recent rain, had a cold, corpse-eyed luminousness. She enteredby the lower gate, and crossed the quadrangle to the wing wherein theapartments that had been hers since her marriage were situate, till shestood under a window which, if her husband were in the house, gavelight to his bedchamber.
She faltered, and paused with her hand on her heart, in spite ofherself. Could she call to her presence the very cause of all herforegoing troubles? Alas!--old Jones was seven miles off; Giles waspossibly dying--what else could she do?
It was in a perspiration, wrought even more by consciousness than byexercise, that she picked up some gravel, threw it at the panes, andwaited to see the result. The night-bell which had been fixed whenFitzpiers first took up his residence there still remained; but as ithad fallen into disuse with the collapse of his practice, and hiselopement, she did not venture to pull it now.
Whoever slept in the room had heard her signal, slight as it was. Inhalf a minute the window was opened, and a voice said "Yes?"inquiringly. Grace recognized her husband in the speaker at once. Hereffort was now to disguise her own accents.
"Doctor," she said, in as unusual a tone as she could command, "a manis dangerously ill in One-chimney Hut, out towards Delborough, and youmust go to him at once--in all mercy!"
"I will, readily."
The alacrity, surprise, and pleasure expressed in his reply amazed herfor a moment. But, in truth, they denoted the sudden relief of a manwho, having got back in a mood of contrition, from erratic abandonmentto fearful joys, found the soothing routine of professional practiceunexpectedly opening anew to him. The highest desire of his soul justnow was for a respectable life of painstaking. If this, his firstsummons since his return, had been to attend upon a cat or dog, hewould scarcely have refused it in the circumstances.
"Do you know the way?" she asked.
"Yes," said he.
"One-chimney Hut," she repeated. "And--immediately!"
"Yes, yes," said Fitzpiers.
Grace remained no longer. She passed out of the white gate withoutslamming it, and hastened on her way back. Her husband, then, hadre-entered her father's house. How he had been able to effect areconciliation with the old man, what were the terms of the treatybetween them, she could not so much as conjecture. Some sort of trucemust have been entered into, that was all she could say. But close asthe question lay to her own life, there was a more urgent one whichbanished it; and she traced her steps quickly along the meanderingtrack-ways.
Meanwhile, Fitzpiers was preparing to leave the house. The state ofhis mind, over and above his professional zeal, was peculiar. AtGrace's first remark he had not recognized or suspected her presence;but as she went on, he was awakened to the great resemblance of thespeaker's voice to his wife's. He had taken in such good faith thestatement of the household on his arrival, that she had gone on a visitfor a time because she could not at once bring her mind to bereconciled to him, that he could not quite actually believe this comerto be she. It was one of the features of Fitzpiers's repentant humorat this date that, on receiving the explanation of her absence, he hadmade no attempt to outrage her feelings by following her; though nobodyhad informed him how very shortly her departure had preceded his entry,and of all that might have been inferred from her precipitancy.
Melbury, after much alarm and consideration, had decided not to followher either. He sympathized with her flight, much as he deplored it;moreover, the tragic color of the antecedent events that he had been agreat means of creating checked his instinct to interfere. He prayedand trusted that she had got into no danger on her way (as he supposed)to Sherton, and thence to Exbury, if that were the place she had goneto, forbearing all inquiry which the strangeness of her departure wouldhave made natural. A few months before this time a performance byGrace of one-tenth the magnitude of this would have aroused him tounwonted investigation.
It was in the same spirit that he had tacitly assented to Fitzpiers'sdomicilatio
n there. The two men had not met face to face, but Mrs.Melbury had proposed herself as an intermediary, who made the surgeon'sre-entrance comparatively easy to him. Everything was provisional, andnobody asked questions. Fitzpiers had come in the performance of aplan of penitence, which had originated in circumstances hereafter tobe explained; his self-humiliation to the very bass-string wasdeliberate; and as soon as a call reached him from the bedside of adying man his desire was to set to work and do as much good as he couldwith the least possible fuss or show. He therefore refrained fromcalling up a stableman to get ready any horse or gig, and set out forOne-chimney Hut on foot, as Grace had done.