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

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