By this time Fitzpiers was quite recovered as to physical strength. But he had eaten nothing since making a hasty breakfast in London that morning, his anxiety about Felice having hurried him away from home before dining; as a consequence, the old rum administered by his father-inlaw flew to the young man’s head and loosened his tongue, without his ever having recognized who it was that had lent him a kindly2 hand. He began to speak in desultory3 sentences, Melbury still supporting him.
“I’ve come all the way from London today,” said Fitzpiers. “Ah, that’s the place to meet your equals. I live at Hintock — worse, at Little Hintock — and I am quite lost there. There’s not a man within ten miles of Hintock who can comprehend me. I tell you, Farmer What’s-your-name, that I’m a man of education. I know several languages; the poets and I are familiar friends; I used to read more in metaphysics than anybody within fifty miles; and since I gave that up there’s nobody can match me in the whole county of Wessex as a scientist. Yet I an doomed4 to live with tradespeople in a miserable5 little hole like Hintock!”
“Indeed!” muttered Melbury.
Fitzpiers, increasingly energized6 by the alcohol, here reared himself up suddenly from the bowed posture7 he had hitherto held, thrusting his shoulders so violently against Melbury’s breast as to make it difficult for the old man to keep a hold on the reins8. “People don’t appreciate me here!” the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softly and slowly, “except one — except one! . . . A passionate9 soul, as warm as she is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she is beautiful. I say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rather tight — rather like the eagle’s, you know, that ate out the liver of Pro10 — Pre — the man on Mount Caucasus. People don’t appreciate me, I say, except HER. Ah, gods, I am an unlucky man! She would have been mine, she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so. I stooped to mate beneath me, and now I rue11 it.”
The position was becoming a very trying one for Melbury, corporeally12 and mentally. He was obliged to steady Fitzpiers with his left arm, and he began to hate the contact. He hardly knew what to do. It was useless to remonstrate13 with Fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusion from the rum and from the fall. He remained silent, his hold upon his companion, however, being stern rather than compassionate14.
“You hurt me a little, farmer — though I am much obliged to you for your kindness. People don’t appreciate me, I say. Between ourselves, I am losing my practice here; and why? Because I see matchless attraction where matchless attraction is, both in person and position. I mention no names, so nobody will be the wiser. But I have lost her, in a legitimate15 sense, that is. If I were a free man now, things have come to such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune (which I don’t covet17 for itself) I should have a chance of satisfying an honorable ambition — a chance I have never had yet, and now never, never shall have, probably!”
Melbury, his heart throbbing18 against the other’s backbone19, and his brain on fire with indignation, ventured to mutter huskily, “Why?”
The horse ambled20 on some steps before Fitzpiers replied, “Because I am tied and bound to another by law, as tightly as I am to you by your arm — not that I complain of your arm — I thank you for helping21 me. Well, where are we? Not nearly home yet? . . . Home, say I. It is a home! When I might have been at the other house over there.” In a stupefied way he flung his hand in the direction of the park. “I was just two months too early in committing myself. Had I only seen the other first —”
Here the old man’s arm gave Fitzpiers a convulsive shake. “What are you doing?” continued the latter. “Keep still, please, or put me down. I was saying that I lost her by a mere22 little two months! There is no chance for me now in this world, and it makes me reckless — reckless! Unless, indeed, anything should happen to the other one. She is amiable23 enough; but if anything should happen to her — and I hear she is ill — well, if it should, I should be free — and my fame, my happiness, would be insured.”
These were the last words that Fitzpiers uttered in his seat in front of the timber-merchant. Unable longer to master himself, Melbury, the skin of his face compressed, whipped away his spare arm from Fitzpiers’s waist, and seized him by the collar.
“You heartless villain24 — after all that we have done for ye!” he cried, with a quivering lip. “And the money of hers that you’ve had, and the roof we’ve provided to shelter ye! It is to me, George Melbury, that you dare to talk like that!” The exclamation25 was accompanied by a powerful swing from the shoulder, which flung the young man head-long into the road, Fitzpiers fell with a heavy thud upon the stumps26 of some undergrowth which had been cut during the winter preceding. Darling continued her walk for a few paces farther and stopped.
“God forgive me!” Melbury murmured, repenting27 of what he had done. “He tried me too sorely; and now perhaps I’ve murdered him!”
He turned round in the saddle and looked towards the spot on which Fitzpiers had fallen. To his great surprise he beheld28 the surgeon rise to his feet with a bound, as if unhurt, and walk away rapidly under the trees.
Melbury listened till the rustle29 of Fitzpiers’s footsteps died away. “It might have been a crime, but for the mercy of Providence30 in providing leaves for his fall,” he said to himself. And then his mind reverted31 to the words of Fitzpiers, and his indignation so mounted within him that he almost wished the fall had put an end to the young man there and then.
He had not ridden far when he discerned his own gray mare standing32 under some bushes. Leaving Darling for a moment, Melbury went forward and easily caught the younger animal, now disheartened at its freak. He then made the pair of them fast to a tree, and turning back, endeavored to find some trace of Fitzpiers, feeling pitifully that, after all, he had gone further than he intended with the offender33.
But though he threaded the wood hither and thither34, his toes ploughing layer after layer of the little horny scrolls35 that had once been leaves, he could not find him. He stood still listening and looking round. The breeze was oozing36 through the network of boughs37 as through a strainer; the trunks and larger branches stood against the light of the sky in the forms of writhing38 men, gigantic candelabra, pikes, halberds, lances, and whatever besides the fancy chose to make of them. Giving up the search, Melbury came back to the horses, and walked slowly homeward, leading one in each hand.
It happened that on this self-same evening a boy had been returning from Great to Little Hintock about the time of Fitzpiers’s and Melbury’s passage home along that route. A horse-collar that had been left at the harness-mender’s to be repaired was required for use at five o’clock next morning, and in consequence the boy had to fetch it overnight. He put his head through the collar, and accompanied his walk by whistling the one tune16 he knew, as an antidote39 to fear.
The boy suddenly became aware of a horse trotting40 rather friskily41 along the track behind him, and not knowing whether to expect friend or foe42, prudence43 suggested that he should cease his whistling and retreat among the trees till the horse and his rider had gone by; a course to which he was still more inclined when he found how noiselessly they approached, and saw that the horse looked pale, and remembered what he had read about Death in the Revelation. He therefore deposited the collar by a tree, and hid himself behind it. The horseman came on, and the youth, whose eyes were as keen as telescopes, to his great relief recognized the doctor.
As Melbury surmised44, Fitzpiers had in the darkness taken Blossom for Darling, and he had not discovered his mistake when he came up opposite the boy, though he was somewhat surprised at the liveliness of his usually placid45 mare. The only other pair of eyes on the spot whose vision was keen as the young carter’s were those of the horse; and, with that strongly conservative objection to the unusual which animals show, Blossom, on eying the collar under the tree — quite invisible to Fitzpiers — exercised none of the patience of the older horse, but shied sufficiently46 to unseat so second-rate an equestrian47 as the surgeon.
He fell, and did not move, lying as Melbury afterwards found him. The boy ran away, salving his conscience for the desertion by thinking how vigorously he would spread the alarm of the accident when he got to Hintock — which he uncompromisingly did, incrusting the skeleton event with a load of dramatic horrors.
Grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by her husband, at the Crown Hotel, Shottsford-Forum, had been paid for and dismissed. The long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a feverish48 intermittent49 nervousness which had more to do with mind than body, and she walked about her sitting-room50 in something of a hopeful mood. Mrs. Melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that her husband had returned from London. He had gone out, she said, to see a patient, as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had no dinner or tea. Grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicion of his whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of Mrs. Charmond’s rumored51 sorrows and plans of departure.
So the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. She had left Hintock in a turmoil52 of feeling after the revelation of Mrs. Charmond, and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. But she had thought the matter over, and had allowed her father’s influence to prevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that Edgar’s arrival had preceded hers.
By-and-by Mrs. Melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry and abruptness53.
“I have something to tell — some bad news,” she said. “But you must not be alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. Edgar has been thrown off his horse. We don’t think he is hurt much. It happened in the wood the other side of Nellcombe Bottom, where ’tis said the ghosts of the brothers walk.”
She went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the invented horrors that had been communicated by the boy. “I thought it better to tell you at once,” she added, “in case he should not be very well able to walk home, and somebody should bring him.”
Mrs. Melbury really thought matters much worse than she represented, and Grace knew that she thought so. She sat down dazed for a few minutes, returning a negative to her step-mother’s inquiry54 if she could do anything for her. “But please go into the bedroom,” Grace said, on second thoughts, “and see if all is ready there — in case it is serious.” Mrs. Melbury thereupon called Grammer, and they did as directed, supplying the room with everything they could think of for the accommodation of an injured man.
Nobody was left in the lower part of the house. Not many minutes passed when Grace heard a knock at the door — a single knock, not loud enough to reach the ears of those in the bedroom. She went to the top of the stairs and said, faintly, “Come up,” knowing that the door stood, as usual in such houses, wide open.
Retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up the stairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voice revealed her to be Suke Damson, in great fright and sorrow. A streak55 of light from the partially56 closed door of Grace’s room fell upon her face as she came forward, and it was drawn57 and pale.
“Oh, Miss Melbury — I would say Mrs. Fitzpiers,” she said, wringing58 her hands. “This terrible news. Is he dead? Is he hurted very bad? Tell me; I couldn’t help coming; please forgive me, Miss Melbury — Mrs. Fitzpiers I would say!”
Grace sank down on the oak chest which stood on the landing, and put her hands to her now flushed face and head. Could she order Suke Damson down-stairs and out of the house? Her husband might be brought in at any moment, and what would happen? But could she order this genuinely grieved woman away?
There was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till Suke said, “Why don’t ye speak? Is he here? Is he dead? If so, why can’t I see him — would it be so very wrong?”
Before Grace had answered somebody else came to the door below — a foot-fall light as a roe’s. There was a hurried tapping upon the panel, as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought not whether a knocker were there or no. Without a pause, and possibly guided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascended59 the staircase as the first had done. Grace was sufficiently visible, and the lady, for a lady it was, came to her side.
“I could make nobody hear down-stairs,” said Felice Charmond, with lips whose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like one ready to sink on the floor with distress60. “What is — the matter — tell me the worst! Can he live?” She looked at Grace imploringly61, without perceiving poor Suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk away into the shade.
Mrs. Charmond’s little feet were covered with mud; she was quite unconscious of her appearance now. “I have heard such a dreadful report,” she went on; “I came to ascertain62 the truth of it. Is he — killed?”
“She won’t tell us — he’s dying — he’s in that room!” burst out Suke, regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of Mrs. Melbury and Grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage.
“Where?” said Mrs. Charmond; and on Suke pointing out the direction, she made as if to go thither.
Grace barred the way. “He is not there,” she said. “I have not seen him any more than you. I have heard a report only — not so bad as you think. It must have been exaggerated to you.”
“Please do not conceal63 anything — let me know all!” said Felice, doubtingly.
“You shall know all I know — you have a perfect right to know — who can have a better than either of you?” said Grace, with a delicate sting which was lost upon Felice Charmond now. “I repeat, I have only heard a less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how little, I cannot say. I pray God that it means not much — in common humanity. You probably pray the same — for other reasons.”
She regarded them both there in the dim light a while.
They stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heeding64 her mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was well, very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife’s regulation terms of virtuous65 sarcasm66, as woman, creature, or thing, for losing their hearts to her husband. But life, what was it, and who was she? She had, like the singer of the psalm67 of Asaph, been plagued and chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in order to please herself — the individual —“offend against the generation,” as he would not?
“He is dying, perhaps,” blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron68 to her eyes.
In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of heart, all for a man who had wronged them — had never really behaved towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. Neither one but would have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. The tears which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. She turned to the balustrade, bent69 herself upon it, and wept.
Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and letting the tears run down silently. While these three poor women stood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied themselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the court, and in a moment Melbury’s voice was heard calling to his stableman. Grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out into the quadrangle as her father crossed it towards the door. “Father, what is the matter with him?” she cried.
“Who — Edgar?” said Melbury, abruptly70. “Matter? Nothing. What, my dear, and have you got home safe? Why, you are better already! But you ought not to be out in the air like this.”
“But he has been thrown off his horse!”
“I know; I know. I saw it. He got up again, and walked off as well as ever. A fall on the leaves didn’t hurt a spry fellow like him. He did not come this way,” he added, significantly. “I suppose he went to look for his horse. I tried to find him, but could not. But after seeing him go away under the trees I found the horse, and have led it home for safety. So he must walk. Now, don’t you stay out here in this night air.
She returned to the house with her father. when she had again ascended to the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a great relief to her to find that both Petticoat the First and Petticoat the Second of her Bien-aime had silently disappeared. They had, in all probability, heard the words of her father, and departed with their anxieties relieved.
Presently her parents came up to Grace, and busied themselves to see that she was comfortable. Perceiving soon that she would prefer to be left alone they went away.
Grace waited on. The clock raised its voice now and then, but her husband did not return. At her father’s usual hour for retiring he again came in to see her. “Do not stay up,” she said, as soon as he entered. “I am not at all tired. I will sit up for him.”
“I think it will be useless, Grace,” said Melbury, slowly.
“Why?”
“I have had a bitter quarrel with him; and on that account I hardly think he will return to-night.”
“A quarrel? Was that after the fall seen by the boy?”
Melbury nodded an affirmative, without taking his eyes off the candle.
“Yes; it was as we were coming home together,” he said.
Something had been swelling71 up in Grace while her father was speaking. “How could you want to quarrel with him?” she cried, suddenly. “Why could you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? He is my husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need not provoke him unnecessarily. First you induce me to accept him, and then you do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!”
“How can you speak so unjustly to me, Grace?” said Melbury, with indignant sorrow. “I divide you from your husband, indeed! You little think —”
He was inclined to say more — to tell her the whole story of the encounter, and that the provocation72 he had received had lain entirely73 in hearing her despised. But it would have greatly distressed74 her, and he forbore. “You had better lie down. You are tired,” he said, soothingly75. “Good-night.”
The household went to bed, and a silence fell upon the dwelling76, broken only by the occasional skirr of a halter in Melbury’s stables. Despite her father’s advice Grace still waited up. But nobody came.
It was a critical time in Grace’s emotional life that night. She thought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgot Winterborne.
“How these unhappy women must have admired Edgar!” she said to herself. “How attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he is attractive.” The possibility is that, piqued77 by rivalry78, these ideas might have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a show of the least reciprocity in Fitzpiers. There was, in truth, a love-bird yearning79 to fly from her heart; and it wanted a lodging80 badly.
But no husband came. The fact was that Melbury had been much mistaken about the condition of Fitzpiers. People do not fall headlong on stumps of underwood with impunity81. Had the old man been able to watch Fitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising and walking into the thicket82 he dropped blood as he went; that he had not proceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and, raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down.
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1
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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energized
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| v.给予…精力，能量( energize的过去式和过去分词 )；使通电 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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corporeally
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| adv.肉体上，物质上 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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friskily
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| adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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50
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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55
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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72
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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74
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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80
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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