CHAPTER XLVI.
The woods were uninteresting, and Grace stayed in-doors a great deal.She became quite a student, reading more than she had done since hermarriage But her seclusion was always broken for the periodical visitto Winterborne's grave with Marty, which was kept up with piousstrictness, for the purpose of putting snow-drops, primroses, and othervernal flowers thereon as they came.
One afternoon at sunset she was standing just outside her father'sgarden, which, like the rest of the Hintock enclosures, abutted intothe wood. A slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way toeither of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. Grace wasjust about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached alongthe path, and held up his hand to detain her. It was her husband.
"I am delighted," he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed noreason to doubt his words. "I saw you some way off--I was afraid youwould go in before I could reach you."
"It is a week before the time," said she, reproachfully. "I said afortnight from the last meeting."
"My dear, you don't suppose I could wait a fortnight without trying toget a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! Would itmake you angry to know that I have been along this path at dusk threeor four times since our last meeting? Well, how are you?"
She did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it amoment longer than mere formality required, she made it smaller, sothat it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look whichalways followed his attempts in this direction. He saw that she was notyet out of the elusive mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and hewas correspondingly careful to tranquillize her.
His assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. "I had no idea youcame so often," she said. "How far do you come from?"
"From Exbury. I always walk from Sherton-Abbas, for if I hire, peoplewill know that I come; and my success with you so far has not beengreat enough to justify such overtness. Now, my dear one--as I MUSTcall you--I put it to you: will you see me a little oftener as thespring advances?"
Grace lapsed into unwonted sedateness, and avoiding the question, said,"I wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give up thosestrange studies that used to distract you so much. I am sure you wouldget on."
"It is the very thing I am doing. I was going to ask you to burn--or,at least, get rid of--all my philosophical literature. It is in thebookcases in your rooms. The fact is, I never cared much for abstrusestudies."
"I am so glad to hear you say that. And those other books--those pilesof old plays--what good are they to a medical man?"
"None whatever!" he replied, cheerfully. "Sell them at Sherton forwhat they will fetch."
"And those dreadful old French romances, with their horrid spellings of'filz' and 'ung' and 'ilz' and 'mary' and 'ma foy?'"
"You haven't been reading them, Grace?"
"Oh no--I just looked into them, that was all."
"Make a bonfire of 'em directly you get home. I meant to do it myself.I can't think what possessed me ever to collect them. I have only afew professional hand-books now, and am quite a practical man. I am inhopes of having some good news to tell you soon, and then do you thinkyou could--come to me again?"
"I would rather you did not press me on that just now," she replied,with some feeling. "You have said you mean to lead a new, useful,effectual life; but I should like to see you put it in practice for alittle while before you address that query to me. Besides--I could notlive with you."
"Why not?"
Grace was silent a few instants. "I go with Marty to Giles's grave.We swore we would show him that devotion. And I mean to keep it up."
"Well, I wouldn't mind that at all. I have no right to expect anythingelse, and I will not wish you to keep away. I liked the man as well asany I ever knew. In short, I would accompany you a part of the way tothe place, and smoke a cigar on the stile while I waited till you cameback."
"Then you haven't given up smoking?"
"Well--ahem--no. I have thought of doing so, but--"
His extreme complacence had rather disconcerted Grace, and the questionabout smoking had been to effect a diversion. Presently she said,firmly, and with a moisture in her eye that he could not see, as hermind returned to poor Giles's "frustrate ghost," "I don't like you--tospeak lightly on that subject, if you did speak lightly. To be frankwith you--quite frank--I think of him as my betrothed lover still. Icannot help it. So that it would be wrong for me to join you."
Fitzpiers was now uneasy. "You say your betrothed lover still," herejoined. "When, then, were you betrothed to him, or engaged, as wecommon people say?"
"When you were away."
"How could that be?"
Grace would have avoided this; but her natural candor led her on. "Itwas when I was under the impression that my marriage with you was aboutto be annulled, and that he could then marry me. So I encouraged himto love me."
Fitzpiers winced visibly; and yet, upon the whole, she was right intelling it. Indeed, his perception that she was right in her absolutesincerity kept up his affectionate admiration for her under the pain ofthe rebuff. Time had been when the avowal that Grace had deliberatelytaken steps to replace him would have brought him no sorrow. But sheso far dominated him now that he could not bear to hear her words,although the object of her high regard was no more.
"It is rough upon me--that!" he said, bitterly. "Oh, Grace--I did notknow you--tried to get rid of me! I suppose it is of no use, but Iask, cannot you hope to--find a little love in your heart for me again?"
"If I could I would oblige you; but I fear I cannot!" she replied, withillogical ruefulness. "And I don't see why you should mind my havinghad one lover besides yourself in my life, when you have had so many."
"But I can tell you honestly that I love you better than all of themput together, and that's what you will not tell me!"
"I am sorry; but I fear I cannot," she said, sighing again.
"I wonder if you ever will?" He looked musingly into her indistinctface, as if he would read the future there. "Now have pity, and tellme: will you try?"
"To love you again?"
"Yes; if you can."
"I don't know how to reply," she answered, her embarrassment provingher truth. "Will you promise to leave me quite free as to seeing youor not seeing you?"
"Certainly. Have I given any ground for you to doubt my first promisein that respect?"
She was obliged to admit that he had not.
"Then I think that you might get your heart out of that grave," saidhe, with playful sadness. "It has been there a long time."
She faintly shook her head, but said, "I'll try to think of youmore--if I can."
With this Fitzpiers was compelled to be satisfied, and he asked herwhen she would meet him again.
"As we arranged--in a fortnight."
"If it must be a fortnight it must!"
"This time at least. I'll consider by the day I see you again if I canshorten the interval."
"Well, be that as it may, I shall come at least twice a week to look atyour window."
"You must do as you like about that. Good-night."
"Say 'husband.'"
She seemed almost inclined to give him the word; but exclaiming, "No,no; I cannot," slipped through the garden-hedge and disappeared.
Fitzpiers did not exaggerate when he told her that he should haunt theprecincts of the dwelling. But his persistence in this course did notresult in his seeing her much oftener than at the fortnightly intervalwhich she had herself marked out as proper. At these times, however,she punctually appeared, and as the spring wore on the meetings werekept up, though their character changed but little with the increase intheir number.
The small garden of the cottage occupied by the Tangs family--father,son, and now son's wife--aligned with the larger one of thetimber-dealer at its upper end; and when young Tim, after leaving workat Melbury's, stood at dusk in the little bower at
the corner of hisenclosure to smoke a pipe, he frequently observed the surgeon passalong the outside track before-mentioned. Fitzpiers always walkedloiteringly, pensively, looking with a sharp eye into the gardens oneafter another as he proceeded; for Fitzpiers did not wish to leave thenow absorbing spot too quickly, after travelling so far to reach it;hoping always for a glimpse of her whom he passionately desired to taketo his arms anew.
Now Tim began to be struck with these loitering progresses along thegarden boundaries in the gloaming, and wondered what they boded. Itwas, naturally, quite out of his power to divine the singular,sentimental revival in Fitzpiers's heart; the fineness of tissue whichcould take a deep, emotional--almost also an artistic--pleasure inbeing the yearning inamorato of a woman he once had deserted, wouldhave seemed an absurdity to the young sawyer. Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpierswere separated; therefore the question of affection as between them wassettled. But his Suke had, since that meeting on their marriage-day,repentantly admitted, to the urgency of his questioning, a good dealconcerning her past levities. Putting all things together, he couldhardly avoid connecting Fitzpiers's mysterious visits to this spot withSuke's residence under his roof. But he made himself fairly easy: thevessel in which they were about to emigrate sailed that month; and thenSuke would be out of Fitzpiers's way forever.
The interval at last expired, and the eve of their departure arrived.They were pausing in the room of the cottage allotted to them by Tim'sfather, after a busy day of preparation, which left them weary. In acorner stood their boxes, crammed and corded, their large case for thehold having already been sent away. The firelight shone upon Suke'sfine face and form as she stood looking into it, and upon the face ofTim seated in a corner, and upon the walls of his father's house, whichhe was beholding that night almost for the last time.
Tim Tangs was not happy. This scheme of emigration was dividing himfrom his father--for old Tangs would on no account leave Hintock--andhad it not been for Suke's reputation and his own dignity, Tim would atthe last moment have abandoned the project. As he sat in the back partof the room he regarded her moodily, and the fire and the boxes. Onething he had particularly noticed this evening--she was very restless;fitful in her actions, unable to remain seated, and in a marked degreedepressed.
"Sorry that you be going, after all, Suke?" he said.
She sighed involuntarily. "I don't know but that I be," she answered."'Tis natural, isn't it, when one is going away?"
"But you wasn't born here as I was."
"No."
"There's folk left behind that you'd fain have with 'ee, I reckon?"
"Why do you think that?"
"I've seen things and I've heard things; and, Suke, I say 'twill be agood move for me to get 'ee away. I don't mind his leavings abroad,but I do mind 'em at home."
Suke's face was not changed from its aspect of listless indifference bythe words. She answered nothing; and shortly after he went out for hiscustomary pipe of tobacco at the top of the garden.
The restlessness of Suke had indeed owed its presence to the gentlemanof Tim's suspicions, but in a different--and it must be added injustice to her--more innocent sense than he supposed, judging fromformer doings. She had accidentally discovered that Fitzpiers was inthe habit of coming secretly once or twice a week to Hintock, and knewthat this evening was a favorite one of the seven for his journey. Asshe was going next day to leave the country, Suke thought there couldbe no great harm in giving way to a little sentimentality by obtaininga glimpse of him quite unknown to himself or to anybody, and thustaking a silent last farewell. Aware that Fitzpiers's time for passingwas at hand she thus betrayed her feeling. No sooner, therefore, hadTim left the room than she let herself noiselessly out of the house,and hastened to the corner of the garden, whence she could witness thesurgeon's transit across the scene--if he had not already gone by.
Her light cotton dress was visible to Tim lounging in the arbor of theopposite corner, though he was hidden from her. He saw her stealthilyclimb into the hedge, and so ensconce herself there that nobody couldhave the least doubt her purpose was to watch unseen for a passer-by.
He went across to the spot and stood behind her. Suke started, havingin her blundering way forgotten that he might be near. She at oncedescended from the hedge.
"So he's coming to-night," said Tim, laconically. "And we be alwaysanxious to see our dears."
"He IS coming to-night," she replied, with defiance. "And we BEanxious for our dears."
"Then will you step in-doors, where your dear will soon jine 'ee? We'veto mouster by half-past three to-morrow, and if we don't get to bed byeight at latest our faces will be as long as clock-cases all day."
She hesitated for a minute, but ultimately obeyed, going slowly downthe garden to the house, where he heard the door-latch click behind her.
Tim was incensed beyond measure. His marriage had so far been a totalfailure, a source of bitter regret; and the only course for improvinghis case, that of leaving the country, was a sorry, and possibly mightnot be a very effectual one. Do what he would, his domestic sky waslikely to be overcast to the end of the day. Thus he brooded, and hisresentment gathered force. He craved a means of striking one blow backat the cause of his cheerless plight, while he was still on the sceneof his discomfiture. For some minutes no method suggested itself, andthen he had an idea.
Coming to a sudden resolution, he hastened along the garden, andentered the one attached to the next cottage, which had formerly beenthe dwelling of a game-keeper. Tim descended the path to the back ofthe house, where only an old woman lived at present, and reaching thewall he stopped. Owing to the slope of the ground the roof-eaves ofthe linhay were here within touch, and he thrust his arm up under them,feeling about in the space on the top of the wall-plate.
"Ah, I thought my memory didn't deceive me!" he lipped silently.
With some exertion he drew down a cobwebbed object curiously framed iniron, which clanked as he moved it. It was about three feet in lengthand half as wide. Tim contemplated it as well as he could in the dyinglight of day, and raked off the cobwebs with his hand.
"That will spoil his pretty shins for'n, I reckon!" he said.
It was a man-trap.