The Woodlanders by Thomas Hardy (small books to read .txt) 📕

Covering her eyes with one hand, by an effort of repression she wept a silent trickle, without a sigh or sob. Winterborne took her other hand. “What has happened?” he said.

“He has come.”

There was a stillness as of death, till Winterborne asked, “You mean this, Grace⁠—that I am to help you to get away?”

“Yes,” said she. “Appearance is no matter, when the reality is right. I have said to myself I can trust you.”

Giles knew from this that she did not suspect his treachery⁠—if it could be called such⁠—earlier in the summer, when they met for the last time as lovers; and in the intensity of his contrition for that tender wrong, he determined to deserve her faith now at least, and so wipe out that reproach from his conscience. “I’ll come at once,” he said. “I’ll light a lantern.”

He unhooked a dark-lantern from a nail under the eaves and she did not notice how his hand shook with the slight strain, or dream that in making this offer he was taxing a convalescence which could ill afford such self-sacrifice. The lantern was lit, and they started.

XLI

The first hundred yards of their course lay under motionless trees, whose upper foliage began to hiss with falling drops of rain. By the time that they emerged upon a glade it rained heavily.

“This is awkward,” said Grace, with an effort to hide her concern.

Winterborne stopped. “Grace,” he said, preserving a strictly business manner which belied him, “you cannot go to Sherton tonight.”

“But I must!”

“Why? It is nine miles from here. It is almost an impossibility in this rain.”

“True⁠—why?” she replied, mournfully, at the end of a silence. “What is reputation to me?”

“Now hearken,” said Giles. “You won’t⁠—go back to your⁠—”

“No, no, no! Don’t make me!” she cried, piteously.

“Then let us turn.” They slowly retraced their steps, and again stood before his door. “Now, this house from this moment is yours, and not mine,” he said, deliberately. “I have a place near by where I can stay very well.”

Her face had drooped. “Oh!” she murmured, as she saw the dilemma. “What have I done!”

There was a smell of something burning within, and he looked through the window. The rabbit that he had been cooking to coax a weak appetite was beginning to char. “Please go in and attend to it,” he said. “Do what you like. Now I leave. You will find everything about the hut that is necessary.”

“But, Giles⁠—your supper,” she exclaimed. “An outhouse would do for me⁠—anything⁠—till tomorrow at daybreak!”

He signified a negative. “I tell you to go in⁠—you may catch agues out here in your delicate state. You can give me my supper through the window, if you feel well enough. I’ll wait a while.”

He gently urged her to pass the doorway, and was relieved when he saw her within the room sitting down. Without so much as crossing the threshold himself, he closed the door upon her, and turned the key in the lock. Tapping at the window, he signified that she should open the casement, and when she had done this he handed in the key to her.

“You are locked in,” he said; “and your own mistress.”

Even in her trouble she could not refrain from a faint smile at his scrupulousness, as she took the door-key.

“Do you feel better?” he went on. “If so, and you wish to give me some of your supper, please do. If not, it is of no importance. I can get some elsewhere.”

The grateful sense of his kindness stirred her to action, though she only knew half what that kindness really was. At the end of some ten minutes she again came to the window, pushed it open, and said in a whisper, “Giles!” He at once emerged from the shade, and saw that she was preparing to hand him his share of the meal upon a plate.

“I don’t like to treat you so hardly,” she murmured, with deep regret in her words as she heard the rain pattering on the leaves. “But⁠—I suppose it is best to arrange like this?”

“Oh yes,” he said, quickly.

“I feel that I could never have reached Sherton.”

“It was impossible.”

“Are you sure you have a snug place out there?” (With renewed misgiving.)

“Quite. Have you found everything you want? I am afraid it is rather rough accommodation.”

“Can I notice defects? I have long passed that stage, and you know it, Giles, or you ought to.”

His eyes sadly contemplated her face as its pale responsiveness modulated through a crowd of expressions that showed only too clearly to what a pitch she was strung. If ever Winterborne’s heart fretted his bosom it was at this sight of a perfectly defenceless creature conditioned by such circumstances. He forgot his own agony in the satisfaction of having at least found her a shelter. He took his plate and cup from her hands, saying, “Now I’ll push the shutter to, and you will find an iron pin on the inside, which you must fix into the bolt. Do not stir in the morning till I come and call you.”

She expressed an alarmed hope that he would not go very far away.

“Oh no⁠—I shall be quite within hail,” said Winterborne.

She bolted the window as directed, and he retreated. His snug place proved to be a wretched little shelter of the roughest kind, formed of four hurdles thatched with brake-fern. Underneath were dry sticks, hay, and other litter of the sort, upon which he sat down; and there in the dark tried to eat his meal. But his appetite was quite gone. He pushed the plate aside, and shook up the hay and sacks, so as to form a rude couch, on which he flung himself down to sleep, for it was getting late.

But sleep he could not, for many reasons, of which not the least was thought of his charge. He sat up, and looked towards the cot through the damp obscurity. With all its external features the same as