The Woodlanders Part 2 by Thomas Hardy (best romantic books to read txt) 📕

The Meal Remained untasted.  Suddenly Rising from Before The

Hearth Of Smouldering embers,  Where She Had Been Crouching with

Her Hands Clasped over Her Knees,  She Crossed the Room,  Unlocked

The Door,  And Listened.  Every Breath Of Wind Had Ceased with The

Decline Of Day,  But The Rain Had Resumed the Steady Dripping of

The Night Before.  Grace Might Have Stood There Five Minutes When

She Fancied she Heard That Old Sound,  A Cough,  At No Great

Distance; And It Was Presently Repeated.  If It Were

Winterborne'S,  He Must Be Near Her; Why,  Then,  Had He Not Visited

Her?

A Horrid Misgiving that He Could Not Visit Her Took Possession Of

Grace,  And She Looked up Anxiously For The Lantern,  Which Was

Hanging above Her Head.  To Light It And Go In the Direction Of

The Sound Would Be The Obvious Way To Solve The Dread Problem; But

The Conditions Made Her Hesitate,  And In a Moment A Cold Sweat

Pervaded her At Further Sounds From The Same Quarter.

They Were Low Mutterings; At First Like Persons In conversation,

But Gradually Resolving themselves Into Varieties Of One Voice.

It Was An Endless Monologue,  Like That We Sometimes Hear From

Inanimate Nature In deep Secret Places Where Water Flows,  Or Where

Ivy Leaves Flap Against Stones; But By Degrees She Was Convinced

That The Voice Was Winterborne'S.  Yet Who Could Be His Listener,

So Mute And Patient; For Though He Argued so Rapidly And

Persistently,  Nobody Replied.

A Dreadful Enlightenment Spread Through The Mind Of Grace.  "Oh,"

She Cried,  In her Anguish,  As She Hastily Prepared herself To Go

Out,  "How Selfishly Correct I Am Always--Too,  Too Correct! Cruel

Propriety Is Killing the Dearest Heart That Ever Woman Clasped to

Her Own."

While Speaking thus To Herself She Had Lit The Lantern,  And

Hastening out Without Further Thought,  Took The Direction Whence

The Mutterings Had Proceeded.  The Course Was Marked by A Little

Path,  Which Ended at A Distance Of About Forty Yards In a Small

Erection Of Hurdles,  Not Much Larger Than A Shock Of Corn,  Such As

Were Frequent In the Woods And Copses When The Cutting season Was

Going on.  It Was Too Slight Even 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 The Interior,  She Beheld What

Her Prescient Fear Had Pictured in snatches All The Way Thither.

Upon The Straw Within,  Winterborne Lay In his Clothes,  Just As She

Had Seen Him During the Whole Of Her Stay Here,  Except That His

Hat Was Off,  And His Hair Matted and Wild.

Both His Clothes And The Straw Were Saturated with Rain.  His Arms

Were Flung Over His Head; His Face Was Flushed to An Unnatural

Crimson.  His Eyes Had A Burning brightness,  And Though They Met

Her Own,  She Perceived 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

The First 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 Sitting posture,  And Straining her Strength To The

Uttermost,  She Put Him On One Of The Hurdles That Was Loose

Alongside,  And Taking the End Of It In both Her Hands,  Dragged him

Along The Path To The Entrance Of The Hut,  And,  After A Pause For

Breath,  In at The Door-Way.

It Was Somewhat Singular That Giles In his Semi-Conscious State

Acquiesced unresistingly In all That She Did.  But He Never For A

Moment Recognized her--Continuing his Rapid Conversation To

Himself,  And Seeming to Look Upon Her As Some Angel,  Or Other

Supernatural Creature Of The Visionary World In which He Was

Mentally Living.  The Undertaking occupied her More Than Ten

Minutes; But By That Time,  To Her Great Thankfulness,  He Was In

The Inner Room,  Lying on The Bed,  His Damp Outer Clothing removed.

Then The Unhappy Grace Regarded him By The Light Of The Candle.

There Was Something in his Look Which Agonized her,  In the Rush Of

His Thoughts,  Accelerating their Speed from Minute To Minute.  He

Seemed to Be 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

She Firmly Believed he Was Dying.  Unable To Withstand Her

Impulse,  She Knelt 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

Freedom From The Grosser Passions,  His Scrupulous Delicacy,  Had

Never Been Fully Understood By Grace Till This Strange Self-

Sacrifice In lonely Juxtaposition To Her Own Person Was Revealed.

The Perception Of It Added something that Was Little Short Of

Reverence To The Deep Affection For Him Of A Woman Who,  Herself,

Had More Of Artemis Than Of Aphrodite In her Constitution.

All That A Tender Nurse Could Do,  Grace Did; And The Power To

Express Her Solicitude In action,  Unconscious Though The Sufferer

Was,  Brought Her Mournful Satisfaction.  She Bathed his Hot Head,

Wiped his Perspiring hands,  Moistened his Lips,  Cooled his Fiery

Eyelids,  Sponged his Heated skin,  And Administered whatever She

Could Find In the House That The Imagination Could Conceive As

Likely To Be In any Way Alleviating.  That She Might Have Been The

Cause,  Or Partially The Cause,  Of All This,  Interfused misery With

Her Sorrow.

Six Months Before This Date A Scene,  Almost Similar In its

Mechanical Parts,  Had Been Enacted at Hintock House.  It Was

Between A Pair Of Persons Most Intimately Connected in their Lives

With These.  Outwardly Like 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 She Would Have Liked,  In the Emotion Of The Moment,  To

Keep Him Entirely To Herself,  Medical Assistance Was Necessary

While There Remained a Possibility Of Preserving him Alive.  Such

Assistance Was Fatal To Her Own Concealment; But Even Had The

Chance Of Benefiting him Been Less Than It Was,  She Would Have Run

The Hazard For His Sake.  The Question Was,  Where Should She Get A

Medical Man,  Competent And Near?

There Was One Such Man,  And Only One,  Within Accessible Distance;

A Man Who,  If It Were Possible To Save Winterborne'S Life,  Had The

Brain Most Likely To Do It.  If Human Pressure Could Bring him,

That Man Ought To Be Brought To The Sick Giles'S Side.  The

Attempt Should Be Made.

Yet She Dreaded to Leave Her Patient,  And The Minutes Raced past,

And Yet She Postponed her Departure.  At Last,  When It Was After

Eleven O'Clock,  Winterborne Fell Into A Fitful Sleep,  And It

Seemed to Afford Her 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 set It Up,  And Placed it So That The Light Did Not Fall

Upon His Eyes,  She Closed the Door And Started.

The Spirit Of Winterborne Seemed to Keep Her Company And Banish

All Sense Of Darkness From Her Mind.  The Rains Had Imparted a

Phosphorescence To The Pieces Of Touchwood And Rotting leaves That

Lay About Her Path,  Which,  As Scattered by Her Feet,  Spread Abroad

Like Spilt Milk.  She Would Not Run The Hazard Of Losing her Way

By Plunging into Any Short,  Unfrequented track Through The Denser

Parts Of The Woodland,  But Followed a More Open Course,  Which

Eventually Brought Her To The Highway.  Once Here,  She Ran Along

With Great Speed,  Animated by A Devoted purpose Which Had Much

About It That Was Stoical; And It Was With Scarcely Any Faltering

Of Spirit That,  After An Hour'S Progress,  She Passed over Rubdown

Hill,  And Onward Towards That Same Hintock,  And That Same House,

Out Of Which She Had Fled a Few Days Before In irresistible Alarm.

But That Had Happened which,  Above All Other Things Of Chance And

Change,  Could Make Her Deliberately Frustrate Her Plan Of Flight

And Sink All Regard Of Personal Consequences.

One Speciality Of Fitzpiers'S Was Respected by Grace As Much As

Ever--His Professional Skill.  In this She Was Right.  Had His

Persistence Equalled his Insight,  Instead Of Being the Spasmodic

And Fitful Thing it Was,  Fame And Fortune Need never Have Remained

A Wish With Him.  His Freedom From Conventional Errors And Crusted

Prejudices Had,  Indeed,  Been Such As To Retard Rather Than

Accelerate His Advance In hintock And Its Neighborhood,  Where

People Could Not Believe That Nature Herself Effected cures,  And

That The Doctor'S Business Was Only To 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 Already Gone Away.  Ever Since Her Emergence From The Denser

Plantations About Winterborne'S Residence A Pervasive Lightness

Had Hung In the Damp Autumn Sky,  In spite Of The Vault Of Cloud,

Signifying that A Moon Of Some 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 Left By The Recent Rain,

Had A Cold,  Corpse-Eyed luminousness.  She Entered by The Lower

Gate,  And Crossed the Quadrangle To The Wing wherein The

Apartments That Had Been Hers Since Her Marriage Were Situate,

Till She Stood Under A Window Which,  If Her Husband Were In the

House,  Gave Light To His Bedchamber.

She Faltered,  And Paused with Her Hand On Her Heart,  In spite Of

Herself.  Could She Call To Her Presence The Very Cause Of All Her

Foregoing troubles? Alas!--Old Jones Was Seven Miles Off; Giles

Was Possibly Dying--What Else Could She Do?

It Was In a Perspiration,  Wrought Even More By Consciousness Than

By Exercise,  That She Picked up