by Thomas Hardy
Melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thorn walking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use. The scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but a tragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. Through this vision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here and there, as an outer landscape through the high-coloured scenes of a stained 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, asked him 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 see you 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 her private sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard her coming 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. There being no fire in the room, she came in with a shawl thrown loosely round her shoulders, and obviously without the least suspicion that Melbury had called upon any other errand than timber. Felice was, indeed, the only woman in the parish who had not heard the rumor of her own weaknesses; she was at this moment living in a fool’s paradise in respect of that rumor, though not in respect of the weaknesses themselves, which, if the truth be told, caused her grave misgivings.
“Do sit down, Mr. Melbury. You have felled all the trees that were to be 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’s affairs so consummately as to deceive in the manner of the perfect social machine. Hence her words “very nice,” “so charming,” were uttered with a perfunctoriness that made them sound absurdly unreal.
“Yes, yes,” said Melbury, in a reverie. He did not take a chair, and she also remained standing. Resting upon his stick, he began: “Mrs. Charmond, I have called upon a more serious matter — at least to me — than tree-throwing. And whatever mistakes I make in my manner of speaking upon it to you, madam, do me the justice to set ‘em down to my want of practice, and not to my want of care.”
Mrs. Charmond looked ill at ease. She might have begun to guess his meaning; but apart from that, she had such dread of contact with anything painful, harsh, or even earnest, that his preliminaries alone were enough to distress her. “Yes, what is it?” she said.
“I am an old man,” said Melbury, “whom, somewhat late in life, God thought fit to bless with one child, and she a daughter. Her mother was a very dear wife to me, but she was taken away from us when the child was young, and the child became precious as the apple of my eye to me, for she was all I had left to love. For her sake entirely I married as second wife a homespun woman who had been kind as a mother to 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 her possible marriage I could not bear to think, for it seemed like a death that she should cleave to another man, and grow to think his house her home rather than mine. But I saw it was the law of nature that this should be, and that it was for the maid’s happiness that she should have a home when I was gone; and I made up my mind without a murmur to help it on for her sake. In my youth I had wronged my dead friend, and to make amends I determined to give her, my most precious possession, to my friend’s son, seeing that they liked each other well. Things came about which made me doubt if it would be for my daughter’s happiness to do this, inasmuch as the young man was poor, and she was delicately reared. Another man came and paid court to her — one her equal in breeding and accomplishments; in every way it seemed to me that he only could 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 was at the root of my reckoning. I found that this well-born gentleman I had calculated on so surely was not stanch of heart, and that therein lay a danger of great sorrow for my daughter. Madam, he saw you, and you know the rest....I have come to make no demands — to utter no threats; I have come simply as a father in great grief about this only child, and I beseech you to deal kindly with my daughter, and to do nothing 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 one with your power over him well can do, and I am hopeful that the rent between them may be patched up. For it is not as if you would lose by so doing; your course is far higher than the courses of a simple professional man, and the gratitude you would win from me and mine by your kindness is more than I can say.”
Mrs. Charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation on comprehending 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, his words began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said, with hurried, hot breath, “What has led you to think this of me? Who says I have won your daughter’s husband away from her? Some monstrous calumnies are afloat — of which I have known nothing until now!”
Melbury started, and looked at her simply. “But surely, ma’am, you know the truth better than I?”
Her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on her handsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsic film. “Will you leave me to myself?” she said, with a faintness which suggested a guilty conscience. “This is so utterly unexpected — you obtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation — ”
“As God’s in heaven, ma’am, that’s not true. I made no pretence; and I thought 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 really is, 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 coax you, 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 it hurt her warm heart more than I can tell ye. But you were within your right as the superior, no doubt. But if you would consider her position now — surely, surely, you would do her no harm!”
“Certainly I would do her no harm — I — ” Melbury’s eye met hers. It was curious, but the allusion to Grace’s former love for her seemed to touch her more than all Melbury’s other arguments. “Oh, Melbury,” she burst out, “you have made me so unhappy! How could you come to me like this! 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 sat and writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingled with better sentiments.
Mrs. Charmond’s mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods of stress and storm. She had never so clearly perceived till now that her soul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about all this; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming an animated impulse only, a passion incarnate. A fascination had led her on; it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this was where she found herself — overshadowed with sudden night, as if a tornado had passed by.
While she sat, or rather crouched, unhinged by the interview, lunch-time came, and then the early afternoon, almost without her consciousness. Then “a strange gentleman who says it is not necessary to 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 to recover some mental serenity by violent physical exercise, she put on her hat and cloak and went out-of-doors, taking a path which led her up the 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 walk comparatively unobserved.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
There was agitation to-day in the lives of all whom these matters concerned. It was not till the Hintock dinner-time — one o’clock — that Grace discovered her father’s absence from the house after a departure in the morning under somewhat unusual conditions. By a little reasoning and inquiry she was able to come to a conclusion on his destination, and to divine his errand.
Her husband was absent, and her father did not return. He had, in truth, gone on to Sherton after the interview, but this Grace did not know. In an indefinite dread that something serious would arise out of Melbury’s visit by reason of the inequalities of temper and nervous irritation to which he was subject, something possibly that would bring her much more misery than accompanied her present negative state of mind, she left the house about three o’clock, and took a loitering walk in the woodland track by which she imagined he would come home. This track under the bare trees and over the cracking sticks, screened and roofed in from the outer world of wind and cloud by a net-work of boughs, led her slowly on till in time she had left the larger trees behind her and swept round into the coppice where Winterborne and his men were clearing the undergrowth.
Had Giles’s attention been concentrated on his hurdles he would not have seen her; but ever since Melbury’s passage across the opposite glade in the morning he had been as uneasy and unsettled as Grace herself; and her advent now was the one appearance which, since her father’s avowal, could arrest him more than Melbury’s return with his tidings. Fearing that something might be the matter, he hastened up to her.
She had not seen her old lover for a long time, and, too conscious of the late pranks of her heart, she could not behold him calmly. “I am only looking for my father,” she said, in an unnecessarily apologetic intonation.
“I was looking for him too,” said Giles. “I think he may perhaps have gone on farther.”
“Then you knew he was going to the House, Giles?” she said, turning her large tender eyes anxiously upon him. “Did he tell you what for?”
Winterborne glanced doubtingly at her, and then softly hinted that her father had visited him the evening before, and that their old friendship was quite restored, on which she guessed the rest.
“Oh, I am glad, indeed, that you two are friends again!” she cried. And then they stood facing each other, fearing each other, troubling each other’s souls. Grace experienced acute misery at the sight of these wood-cutting scenes, because she had estranged herself from them, craving, even to its defects and inconveniences, that homely sylvan life of her father which in the best probable succession of events would shortly be denied her.
At a little distance, on the edge of the clearing, Marty South was shaping spar-gads to take home for manufacture during the evenings. While Winterborne and Mrs. Fitzpiers stood looking at her in their mutual embarrassment at each other’s presence, they beheld approaching the girl a lady in a dark fur mantle and a black hat, having a white veil tied picturesquely round it. She spoke to Marty, who turned and courtesied, and the lady fell into conversation with her. It was Mrs. Charmond.
On leaving her house, Mrs. Charmond had walked on and onward under the fret and fever of her mind with more vigor than she was accustomed to show in her normal moods — a fever which the solace of a cigarette did not entirely allay. Reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed Marty at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near. Chop, chop, chop, went Marty’s little billhook with never more assiduity, till Mrs. Charmond spoke.
“Who is that young lady I see talking to the woodman yonder?” she asked.
“Mrs. Fitzpiers, ma’am,” said Marty.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Charmond, with something like a start; for she had not recognized Grace at that distance. “And the man she is talking to?”
“That’s Mr. Winterborne.”
A redness stole into Marty’s face as she mentioned Giles’s name, which Mrs. Charmond did not fail to notice informed her of the state of the girl’s heart. “Are you engaged to him?” she asked, softly.
“No, ma’am,” said Marty. “SHE was once; and I think — ”
But Marty could not possibly explain the complications of her thoughts on this matter — which were nothing less than one of extraordinary acuteness for a girl so young and inexperienced — namely, that she saw danger to two hearts naturally honest in Grace being thrown back into Winterborne’s society by the neglect of her husband. Mrs. Charmond, however, with the almost supersensory means to knowledge which women have on such occasions, quite understood what Marty had intended to convey, and the picture thus exhibited to her of lives drifting away, involving the wreck of poor Marty’s hopes, prompted her to more generous resolves than all Melbury’s remonstrances had been able to stimulate.
Full of the new feeling, she bade the girl good-afternoon, and went on over the stumps of hazel to where Grace and Winterborne were standing. They saw her approach, and Winterborne said, “She is coming to you; it is a good omen. She dislikes me, so I’ll go away.” He accordingly retreated to where he had been working before Grace came, and Grace’s formidable rival approached her, each woman taking the other’s measure as she came near.
“Dear — Mrs. Fitzpiers,” said Felice Charmond, with some inward turmoil which stopped her speech. “I have not seen you for a long time.”
She held out her hand tentatively, while Grace stood like a wild animal on first confronting a mirror or other puzzling product of civilization. Was it really Mrs. Charmond speaking to her thus? If it was, she could no longer form any guess as to what it signified.
“I want to talk with you,” said Mrs. Charmond, imploringly, for the gaze of the young woman had chilled her through. “Can you walk on with me till we are quite alone?”
Sick with distaste, Grace nevertheless complied, as by clockwork and they moved evenly side by side into the deeper recesses of the woods. They went farther, much farther than Mrs. Charmond had meant to go; but she could not begin her conversation, and in default of it kept walking.
“I have seen your father,” she at length resumed. “And — I am much troubled by what he told me.”
“What did he tell you? I have not been admitted to his confidence on anything he may have said to you.”
“Nevertheless, why should I repeat to you what you can easily divine?”
“True — true,” returned Grace, mournfully. “Why should you repeat what we both know to be in our minds already?”
“Mrs. Fitzpiers, your husband — ” The moment that the speaker’s tongue touched the dangerous subject a vivid look of self-consciousness flashed over her, in which her heart revealed, as by a lightning gleam, what filled it to overflowing. So transitory was the expression that none but a sensitive woman, and she in Grace’s position, would have had the power to catch its meaning. Upon her the phase was not lost.
“Then you DO love him!” she exclaimed, in a tone of much surprise.
“What do you mean, my young friend?”
“Why,” cried Grace, “I thought till now that you had only been cruelly flirting with my husband, to amuse your idle moments — a rich lady with a poor professional gentleman whom in her heart she despised not much less than her who belongs to him. But I guess from your manner that you love him desperately, and I don’t hate you as I did before.”
“Yes, indeed,” continued Mrs. Fitzpiers, with a trembling tongue, “since it is not playing in your case at all, but REAL. Oh, I do pity you, more than I despise you, for you will s-s-suffer most!”
Mrs. Charmond was now as much agitated as Grace. “I ought not to allow myself to argue with you,” she exclaimed. “I demean myself by doing it. But I liked
you once, and for the sake of that time I try to tell you how mistaken you are!” Much of her confusion resulted from her wonder and alarm at finding herself in a sense dominated mentally and emotionally by this simple school-girl. “I do not love him,” she went on, with desperate untruth. “It was a kindness — my making somewhat more of him than one usually does of one’s doctor. I was lonely; I talked — well, I trifled with him. I am very sorry if such child’s playing out of pure friendship has been a serious matter to you. Who could have expected it? But the world is so simple here.”
“Oh, that’s affectation,” said Grace, shaking her head. “It is no use — you love him. I can see in your face that in this matter of my husband you have not let your acts belie your feelings. During these last four or six months you have been terribly indiscreet; but you have not been insincere, and that almost disarms me.”
“I HAVE been insincere — if you will have the word — I mean I HAVE coquetted, and do NOT love him!”
But Grace clung to her position like a limpet. “You may have trifled with others, but him you love as you never loved another man.”
“Oh, well — I won’t argue,” said Mrs. Charmond, laughing faintly. “And you come to reproach me for it, child.”
“No,” said Grace, magnanimously. “You may go on loving him if you like — I don’t mind at all. You’ll find it, let me tell you, a bitterer business for yourself than for me in the end. He’ll get tired of you soon, as tired as can be — you don’t know him so well as I — and then you may wish you had never seen him!”
Mrs. Charmond had grown quite pale and weak under this prophecy. It was extraordinary that Grace, whom almost every one would have characterized as a gentle girl, should be of stronger fibre than her interlocutor. “You exaggerate — cruel, silly young woman,” she reiterated, writhing with little agonies. “It is nothing but playful friendship — nothing! It will be proved by my future conduct. I shall at once refuse to see him more — since it will make no difference to my heart, and much to my name.”