Something was wrong in the dove-cot. A ghastly sense that he alone
would be responsible for whatever unhappiness should be brought upon
her for whom he almost solely lived, whom to retain under his roof he
had faced the numerous inconveniences involved in giving up the best
part of his house to Fitzpiers. There was no room for doubt that, had
he allowed events to take their natural course, she would have accepted
Winterborne, and realized his old dream of restitution to that young
man's family.
That Fitzpiers could allow himself to look on any other creature for a
moment than Grace filled Melbury with grief and astonishment. In the
pure and simple life he had led it had scarcely occurred to him that
after marriage a man might be faithless. That he could sweep to the
heights of Mrs. Charmond's position, lift the veil of Isis, so to
speak, would have amazed Melbury by its audacity if he had not
suspected encouragement from that quarter. What could he and his
simple Grace do to countervail the passions of such as those two
sophisticated beings--versed in the world's ways, armed with every
apparatus for victory? In such an encounter the homely timber-dealer
felt as inferior as a bow-and-arrow savage before the precise weapons
of modern warfare.
Grace came out of the house as the morning drew on. The village was
silent, most of the folk having gone to the fair. Fitzpiers had
retired to bed, and was sleeping off his fatigue. She went to the
stable and looked at poor Darling: in all probability Giles
Winterborne, by obtaining for her a horse of such intelligence and
docility, had been the means of saving her husband's life. She paused
over the strange thought; and then there appeared her father behind
her. She saw that he knew things were not as they ought to be, from
the troubled dulness of his eye, and from his face, different points of
which had independent motions, twitchings, and tremblings, unknown to
himself, and involuntary.
"He was detained, I suppose, last night?" said Melbury.
"Oh yes; a bad case in the vale," she replied, calmly.
"Nevertheless, he should have stayed at home."
"But he couldn't, father."
Her father turned away. He could hardly bear to see his whilom
truthful girl brought to the humiliation of having to talk like that.
That night carking care sat beside Melbury's pillow, and his stiff
limbs tossed at its presence. "I can't lie here any longer," he
muttered. Striking a light, he wandered about the room. "What have I
done--what have I done for her?" he said to his wife, who had anxiously
awakened. "I had long planned that she should marry the son of the man
I wanted to make amends to; do ye mind how I told you all about it,
Lucy, the night before she came home? Ah! but I was not content with
doing right, I wanted to do more!"