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

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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!"




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