Part 45 (1/2)
He added a postscript:
”I have just heard that the solicitor is to be seen to-morrow.
Possibly, therefore, I shall return in the evening after you get this.”
The paternal longing ran on all fours with her own desire; and yet in forwarding it yesterday she had been on the brink of giving offence.
While craving to be a country girl again just as her father requested; to put off the old Eve, the fastidious miss--or rather madam--completely, her first attempt had been beaten by the unexpected vitality of that fastidiousness. Her father on returning and seeing the trifling coolness of Giles would be sure to say that the same perversity which had led her to make difficulties about marrying Fitzpiers was now prompting her to blow hot and cold with poor Winterborne.
If the latter had been the most subtle hand at touching the stops of her delicate soul instead of one who had just bound himself to let her drift away from him again (if she would) on the wind of her estranging education, he could not have acted more seductively than he did that day. He chanced to be superintending some temporary work in a field opposite her windows. She could not discover what he was doing, but she read his mood keenly and truly: she could see in his coming and going an air of determined abandonment of the whole landscape that lay in her direction.
Oh, how she longed to make it up with him! Her father coming in the evening--which meant, she supposed, that all formalities would be in train, her marriage virtually annulled, and she be free to be won again--how could she look him in the face if he should see them estranged thus?
It was a fair green evening in June. She was seated in the garden, in the rustic chair which stood under the laurel-bushes--made of peeled oak-branches that came to Melbury's premises as refuse after barking-time. The ma.s.s of full-juiced leaf.a.ge on the heights around her was just swayed into faint gestures by a nearly spent wind which, even in its enfeebled state, did not reach her shelter. All day she had expected Giles to call--to inquire how she had got home, or something or other; but he had not come. And he still tantalized her by going athwart and across that orchard opposite. She could see him as she sat.
A slight diversion was presently created by Creedle bringing him a letter. She knew from this that Creedle had just come from Sherton, and had called as usual at the post-office for anything that had arrived by the afternoon post, of which there was no delivery at Hintock. She pondered on what the letter might contain--particularly whether it were a second refresher for Winterborne from her father, like her own of the morning.
But it appeared to have no bearing upon herself whatever. Giles read its contents; and almost immediately turned away to a gap in the hedge of the orchard--if that could be called a hedge which, owing to the drippings of the trees, was little more than a bank with a bush upon it here and there. He entered the plantation, and was no doubt going that way homeward to the mysterious hut he occupied on the other side of the woodland.
The sad sands were running swiftly through Time's gla.s.s; she had often felt it in these latter days; and, like Giles, she felt it doubly now after the solemn and pathetic reminder in her father's communication.
Her freshness would pa.s.s, the long-suffering devotion of Giles might suddenly end--might end that very hour. Men were so strange. The thought took away from her all her former reticence, and made her action bold. She started from her seat. If the little breach, quarrel, or whatever it might be called, of yesterday, was to be healed up it must be done by her on the instant. She crossed into the orchard, and clambered through the gap after Giles, just as he was diminis.h.i.+ng to a faun-like figure under the green canopy and over the brown floor.
Grace had been wrong--very far wrong--in a.s.suming that the letter had no reference to herself because Giles had turned away into the wood after its perusal. It was, sad to say, because the missive had so much reference to herself that he had thus turned away. He feared that his grieved discomfiture might be observed. The letter was from Beauc.o.c.k, written a few hours later than Melbury's to his daughter. It announced failure.
Giles had once done that thriftless man a good turn, and now was the moment when Beauc.o.c.k had chosen to remember it in his own way. During his absence in town with Melbury, the lawyer's clerk had naturally heard a great deal of the timber-merchant's family scheme of justice to Giles, and his communication was to inform Winterborne at the earliest possible moment that their attempt had failed, in order that the young man should not place himself in a false position towards Grace in the belief of its coming success. The news was, in sum, that Fitzpiers's conduct had not been sufficiently cruel to Grace to enable her to snap the bond. She was apparently doomed to be his wife till the end of the chapter.
Winterborne quite forgot his superficial differences with the poor girl under the warm rush of deep and distracting love for her which the almost tragical information engendered.
To renounce her forever--that was then the end of it for him, after all. There was no longer any question about suitability, or room for tiffs on petty tastes. The curtain had fallen again between them. She could not be his. The cruelty of their late revived hope was now terrible. How could they all have been so simple as to suppose this thing could be done?
It was at this moment that, hearing some one coming behind him, he turned and saw her hastening on between the thickets. He perceived in an instant that she did not know the blighting news.
”Giles, why didn't you come across to me?” she asked, with arch reproach. ”Didn't you see me sitting there ever so long?”
”Oh yes,” he said, in unprepared, extemporized tones, for her unexpected presence caught him without the slightest plan of behavior in the conjuncture. His manner made her think that she had been too chiding in her speech; and a mild scarlet wave pa.s.sed over her as she resolved to soften it.
”I have had another letter from my father,” she hastened to continue.
”He thinks he may come home this evening. And--in view of his hopes--it will grieve him if there is any little difference between us, Giles.”
”There is none,” he said, sadly regarding her from the face downward as he pondered how to lay the cruel truth bare.
”Still--I fear you have not quite forgiven me about my being uncomfortable at the inn.”
”I have, Grace, I'm sure.”
”But you speak in quite an unhappy way,” she returned, coming up close to him with the most winning of the many pretty airs that appertained to her. ”Don't you think you will ever be happy, Giles?”
He did not reply for some instants. ”When the sun s.h.i.+nes on the north front of Sherton Abbey--that's when my happiness will come to me!” said he, staring as it were into the earth.
”But--then that means that there is something more than my offending you in not liking The Three Tuns. If it is because I--did not like to let you kiss me in the Abbey--well, you know, Giles, that it was not on account of my cold feelings, but because I did certainly, just then, think it was rather premature, in spite of my poor father. That was the true reason--the sole one. But I do not want to be hard--G.o.d knows I do not,” she said, her voice fluctuating. ”And perhaps--as I am on the verge of freedom--I am not right, after all, in thinking there is any harm in your kissing me.”
”Oh G.o.d!” said Winterborne within himself. His head was turned askance as he still resolutely regarded the ground. For the last several minutes he had seen this great temptation approaching him in regular siege; and now it had come. The wrong, the social sin, of now taking advantage of the offer of her lips had a magnitude, in the eyes of one whose life had been so primitive, so ruled by purest household laws, as Giles's, which can hardly be explained.