by Thomas Hardy
“Certainly,” he said, laughing; “as soon as you have recovered.”
She waited another few moments, then quietly and firmly pushed him aside, and glided on her path, the moon whitening her hot blush away. But it had been enough — new relations between them had begun.
The case of the other girls was different, as has been said. They wrestled and tittered, only escaping after a desperate struggle. Fitzpiers could hear these enactments still going on after Grace had left him, and he remained on the spot where he had caught her, Winterborne having gone away. On a sudden another girl came bounding down the same descent that had been followed by Grace — a fine-framed young woman with naked arms. Seeing Fitzpiers standing there, she said, with playful effrontery, “May’st kiss me if ‘canst catch me, Tim!”
Fitzpiers recognized her as Suke Damson, a hoydenish damsel of the hamlet, who was plainly mistaking him for her lover. He was impulsively disposed to profit by her error, and as soon as she began racing away he started in pursuit.
On she went under the boughs, now in light, now in shade, looking over her shoulder at him every few moments and kissing her hand; but so cunningly dodging about among the trees and moon-shades that she never allowed him to get dangerously near her. Thus they ran and doubled, Fitzpiers warming with the chase, till the sound of their companions had quite died away. He began to lose hope of ever overtaking her, when all at once, by way of encouragement, she turned to a fence in which there was a stile and leaped over it. Outside the scene was a changed one — a meadow, where the half-made hay lay about in heaps, in the uninterrupted shine of the now high moon.
Fitzpiers saw in a moment that, having taken to open ground, she had placed herself at his mercy, and he promptly vaulted over after her. She flitted a little way down the mead, when all at once her light form disappeared as if it had sunk into the earth. She had buried herself in one of the hay-cocks.
Fitzpiers, now thoroughly excited, was not going to let her escape him thus. He approached, and set about turning over the heaps one by one. As soon as he paused, tantalised and puzzled, he was directed anew by an imitative kiss which came from her hiding-place, and by snatches of a local ballad in the smallest voice she could assume:
“O come in from the foggy, foggy dew.”
In a minute or two he uncovered her.
“Oh, ‘tis not Tim!” said she, burying her face.
Fitzpiers, however, disregarded her resistance by reason of its mildness, stooped and imprinted the purposed kiss, then sunk down on the next hay-cock, panting with his race.
“Whom do you mean by Tim?” he asked, presently.
“My young man, Tim Tangs,” said she.
“Now, honour bright, did you really think it was he?”
“I did at first.”
“But you didn’t at last?”
“I didn’t at last.”
“Do you much mind that it was not?”
“No,” she answered, slyly.
Fitzpiers did not pursue his questioning. In the moonlight Suke looked very beautiful, the scratches and blemishes incidental to her out-door occupation being invisible under these pale rays. While they remain silent the coarse whir of the eternal night-jar burst sarcastically from the top of a tree at the nearest corner of the wood. Besides this not a sound of any kind reached their ears, the time of nightingales being now past, and Hintock lying at a distance of two miles at least. In the opposite direction the hay-field stretched away into remoteness till it was lost to the eye in a soft mist.
CHAPTER XXI.
When the general stampede occurred Winterborne had also been looking on, and encountering one of the girls, had asked her what caused them all to fly.
She said with solemn breathlessness that they had seen something very different from what they had hoped to see, and that she for one would never attempt such unholy ceremonies again. “We saw Satan pursuing us with his hour-glass. It was terrible!”
This account being a little incoherent, Giles went forward towards the spot from which the girls had retreated. After listening there a few minutes he heard slow footsteps rustling over the leaves, and looking through a tangled screen of honeysuckle which hung from a bough, he saw in the open space beyond a short stout man in evening-dress, carrying on one arm a light overcoat and also his hat, so awkwardly arranged as possibly to have suggested the “hour-glass” to his timid observers — if this were the person whom the girls had seen. With the other hand he silently gesticulated and the moonlight falling upon his bare brow showed him to have dark hair and a high forehead of the shape seen oftener in old prints and paintings than in real life. His curious and altogether alien aspect, his strange gestures, like those of one who is rehearsing a scene to himself, and the unusual place and hour, were sufficient to account for any trepidation among the Hintock daughters at encountering him.
He paused, and looked round, as if he had forgotten where he was; not observing Giles, who was of the colour of his environment. The latter advanced into the light. The gentleman held up his hand and came towards Giles, the two meeting half-way.
“I have lost my way,” said the stranger. “Perhaps you can put me in the path again.” He wiped his forehead with the air of one suffering under an agitation more than that of simple fatigue.
“The turnpike-road is over there,” said Giles
“I don’t want the turnpike-road,” said the gentleman, impatiently. “I came from that. I want Hintock House. Is there not a path to it across here?”
“Well, yes, a sort of path. But it is hard to find from this point. I’ll show you the way, sir, with great pleasure.”
“Thanks, my good friend. The truth is that I decided to walk across the country after dinner from the hotel at Sherton, where I am staying for a day or two. But I did not know it was so far.”
“It is about a mile to the house from here.”
They walked on together. As there was no path, Giles occasionally stepped in front and bent aside the underboughs of the trees to give his companion a passage, saying every now and then when the twigs, on being released, flew back like whips, “Mind your eyes, sir.” To which the stranger replied, “Yes, yes,” in a preoccupied tone.
So they went on, the leaf-shadows running in their usual quick succession over the forms of the pedestrians, till the stranger said,
“Is it far?”
“Not much farther,” said Winterborne. “The plantation runs up into a corner here, close behind the house.” He added with hesitation, “You know, I suppose, sir, that Mrs. Charmond is not at home?”
“You mistake,” said the other, quickly. “Mrs. Charmond has been away for some time, but she’s at home now.”
Giles did not contradict him, though he felt sure that the gentleman was wrong.
“You are a native of this place?” the stranger said.
“Yes.”
“Well, you are happy in having a home. It is what I don’t possess.”
“You come from far, seemingly?”
“I come now from the south of Europe.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. You are an Italian, or Spanish, or French gentleman, perhaps?”
“I am not either.”
Giles did not fill the pause which ensued, and the gentleman, who seemed of an emotional nature, unable to resist friendship, at length answered the question.
“I am an Italianized American, a South Carolinian by birth,” he said. “I left my native country on the failure of the Southern cause, and have never returned to it since.”
He spoke no more about himself, and they came to the verge of the wood. Here, striding over the fence out upon the upland sward, they could at once see the chimneys of the house in the gorge immediately beneath their position, silent, still, and pale.
“Can you tell me the time?” the gentleman asked. “My watch has stopped.”
“It is between twelve and one,” said Giles.
His companion expressed his astonishment. “I thought it between nine and ten
at latest! Dear me — dear me!”
He now begged Giles to return, and offered him a gold coin, which looked like a sovereign, for the assistance rendered. Giles declined to accept anything, to the surprise of the stranger, who, on putting the money back into his pocket, said, awkwardly, “I offered it because I want you to utter no word about this meeting with me. Will you promise?”
Winterborne promised readily. He thereupon stood still while the other ascended the slope. At the bottom he looked back dubiously. Giles would no longer remain when he was so evidently desired to leave, and returned through the boughs to Hintock.
He suspected that this man, who seemed so distressed and melancholy, might be that lover and persistent wooer of Mrs. Charmond whom he had heard so frequently spoken of, and whom it was said she had treated cavalierly. But he received no confirmation of his suspicion beyond a report which reached him a few days later that a gentleman had called up the servants who were taking care of Hintock House at an hour past midnight; and on learning that Mrs. Charmond, though returned from abroad, was as yet in London, he had sworn bitterly, and gone away without leaving a card or any trace of himself.
The girls who related the story added that he sighed three times before he swore, but this part of the narrative was not corroborated. Anyhow, such a gentleman had driven away from the hotel at Sherton next day in a carriage hired at that inn.
CHAPTER XXII.
The sunny, leafy week which followed the tender doings of Midsummer Eve brought a visitor to Fitzpiers’s door; a voice that he knew sounded in the passage. Mr. Melbury had called. At first he had a particular objection to enter the parlor, because his boots were dusty, but as the surgeon insisted he waived the point and came in.
Looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at Fitzpiers himself, he put his hat under his chair, and with a preoccupied gaze at the floor, he said, “I’ve called to ask you, doctor, quite privately, a question that troubles me. I’ve a daughter, Grace, an only daughter, as you may have heard. Well, she’s been out in the dew — on Midsummer Eve in particular she went out in thin slippers to watch some vagary of the Hintock maids — and she’s got a cough, a distinct hemming and hacking, that makes me uneasy. Now, I have decided to send her away to some seaside place for a change — ”
“Send her away!” Fitzpiers’s countenance had fallen.
“Yes. And the question is, where would you advise me to send her?”
The timber-merchant had happened to call at a moment when Fitzpiers was at the spring-tide of a sentiment that Grace was a necessity of his existence. The sudden pressure of her form upon his breast as she came headlong round the bush had never ceased to linger with him, ever since he adopted the manoeuvre for which the hour and the moonlight and the occasion had been the only excuse. Now she was to be sent away. Ambition? it could be postponed. Family? culture and reciprocity of tastes had taken the place of family nowadays. He allowed himself to be carried forward on the wave of his desire.
“How strange, how very strange it is,” he said, “that you should have come to me about her just now. I have been thinking every day of coming to you on the very same errand.”
“Ah! — you have noticed, too, that her health — — ”
“I have noticed nothing the matter with her health, because there is nothing. But, Mr. Melbury, I have seen your daughter several times by accident. I have admired her infinitely, and I was coming to ask you if I may become better acquainted with her — pay my addresses to her?”
Melbury was looking down as he listened, and did not see the air of half-misgiving at his own rashness that spread over Fitzpiers’s face as he made this declaration.
“You have — got to know her?” said Melbury, a spell of dead silence having preceded his utterance, during which his emotion rose with almost visible effect.
“Yes,” said Fitzpiers.
“And you wish to become better acquainted with her? You mean with a view to marriage — of course that is what you mean?”
“Yes,” said the young man. “I mean, get acquainted with her, with a view to being her accepted lover; and if we suited each other, what would naturally follow.”
The timber-merchant was much surprised, and fairly agitated; his hand trembled as he laid by his walking-stick. “This takes me unawares,” said he, his voice wellnigh breaking down. “I don’t mean that there is anything unexpected in a gentleman being attracted by her; but it did not occur to me that it would be you. I always said,” continued he, with a lump in his throat, “that my Grace would make a mark at her own level some day. That was why I educated her. I said to myself, ‘I’ll do it, cost what it may;’ though her mother-law was pretty frightened at my paying out so much money year after year. I knew it would tell in the end. ‘Where you’ve not good material to work on, such doings would be waste and vanity,’ I said. ‘But where you have that material it is sure to be worth while.’“
“I am glad you don’t object,” said Fitzpiers, almost wishing that Grace had not been quite so cheap for him.
“If she is willing I don’t object, certainly. Indeed,” added the honest man, “it would be deceit if I were to pretend to feel anything else than highly honoured personally; and it is a great credit to her to have drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable old family. That huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about her! Take her and welcome, sir.”
“I’ll endeavor to ascertain her mind.”
“Yes, yes. But she will be agreeable, I should think. She ought to be.”
“I hope she may. Well, now you’ll expect to see me frequently.”
“Oh yes. But, name it all — about her cough, and her going away. I had quite forgot that that was what I came about.”
“I assure you,” said the surgeon, “that her cough can only be the result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any seaside place at all.”
Melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take Fitzpiers’s professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led him to wish to keep her there. The doctor saw this, and honestly dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, “Between ourselves, if I am successful with her I will take her away myself for a month or two, as soon as we are married, which I hope will be before the chilly weather comes on. This will be so very much better than letting her go now.”
The proposal pleased Melbury much. There could be hardly any danger in postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather lasted, and for such a reason. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said, “Your time must be precious, doctor. I’ll get home-along. I am much obliged to ye. As you will see her often, you’ll discover for yourself if anything serious is the matter.”
“I can assure you it is nothing,” said Fitzpiers, who had seen Grace much oftener already than her father knew of.
When he was gone Fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations, like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he knows not the density or temperature. But he had done it, and Grace was the sweetest girl alive.
As for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in Melbury’s ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of whose practice was more than compensated by the former greatness of his family. He had uttered thoughts before they were weighed, and almost before they were shaped. They had expressed in a certain sense his feeling at Fitzpiers’s news, but yet they were not right. Looking on the ground, and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flag-staff, he reached his own precincts, where, as he passed through the court, he automatically stopped to look at the men working in the shed and around. One of them asked him a question about wagon-spokes.
“Hey?” said Melbury, looking hard at him. The man repeated the words.
Melbury stood; then turning suddenly away without answering, he went up the
court and entered the house. As time was no object with the journeymen, except as a thing to get past, they leisurely surveyed the door through which he had disappeared.
“What maggot has the gaffer got in his head now?” said Tangs the elder. “Sommit to do with that chiel of his! When you’ve got a maid of yer own, John Upjohn, that costs ye what she costs him, that will take the squeak out of your Sunday shoes, John! But you’ll never be tall enough to accomplish such as she; and ‘tis a lucky thing for ye, John, as things be. Well, he ought to have a dozen — that would bring him to reason. I see ‘em walking together last Sunday, and when they came to a puddle he lifted her over like a halfpenny doll. He ought to have a dozen; he’d let ‘em walk through puddles for themselves then.”
Meanwhile Melbury had entered the house with the look of a man who sees a vision before him. His wife was in the room. Without taking off his hat he sat down at random.
“Luce — we’ve done it!” he said. “Yes — the thing is as I expected. The spell, that I foresaw might be worked, has worked. She’s done it, and done it well. Where is she — Grace, I mean?”
“Up in her room — what has happened!”
Mr. Melbury explained the circumstances as coherently as he could. “I told you so,” he said. “A maid like her couldn’t stay hid long, even in a place like this. But where is Grace? Let’s have her down. Here — Gra-a-ace!”
She appeared after a reasonable interval, for she was sufficiently spoiled by this father of hers not to put herself in a hurry, however impatient his tones. “What is it, father?” said she, with a smile.
“Why, you scamp, what’s this you’ve been doing? Not home here more than six months, yet, instead of confining yourself to your father’s rank, making havoc in the educated classes.”