One day, while she still lay there with her head throbbing2, wondering if she were really going to join him who had gone before, Grammer Oliver came to her bedside. “I don’t know whe’r this is meant for you to take, ma’am,” she said, “but I have found it on the table. It was left by Marty, I think, when she came this morning.”
Grace turned her hot eyes upon what Grammer held up. It was the phial left at the hut by her husband when he had begged her to take some drops of its contents if she wished to preserve herself from falling a victim to the malady3 which had pulled down Winterborne. She examined it as well as she could. The liquid was of an opaline hue4, and bore a label with an inscription5 in Italian. He had probably got it in his wanderings abroad. She knew but little Italian, but could understand that the cordial was a febrifuge of some sort. Her father, her mother, and all the household were anxious for her recovery, and she resolved to obey her husband’s directions. Whatever the risk, if any, she was prepared to run it. A glass of water was brought, and the drops dropped in.
The effect, though not miraculous6, was remarkable7. In less than an hour she felt calmer, cooler, better able to reflect — less inclined to fret8 and chafe9 and wear herself away. She took a few drops more. From that time the fever retreated, and went out like a damped conflagration10.
“How clever he is!” she said, regretfully. “Why could he not have had more principle, so as to turn his great talents to good account? Perhaps he has saved my useless life. But he doesn’t know it, and doesn’t care whether he has saved it or not; and on that account will never be told by me! Probably he only gave it to me in the arrogance11 of his skill, to show the greatness of his resources beside mine, as Elijah drew down fire from heaven.”
As soon as she had quite recovered from this foiled attack upon her life, Grace went to Marty South’s cottage. The current of her being had again set towards the lost Giles Winterborne.
“Marty,” she said, “we both loved him. We will go to his grave together.”
Great Hintock church stood at the upper part of the village, and could be reached without passing through the street. In the dusk of the late September day they went thither12 by secret ways, walking mostly in silence side by side, each busied with her own thoughts. Grace had a trouble exceeding Marty’s — that haunting sense of having put out the light of his life by her own hasty doings. She had tried to persuade herself that he might have died of his illness, even if she had not taken possession of his house. Sometimes she succeeded in her attempt; sometimes she did not.
They stood by the grave together, and though the sun had gone down, they could see over the woodland for miles, and down to the vale in which he had been accustomed to descend13 every year, with his portable mill and press, to make cider about this time.
Perhaps Grace’s first grief, the discovery that if he had lived he could never have claimed her, had some power in softening14 this, the second. On Marty’s part there was the same consideration; never would she have been his. As no anticipation15 of gratified affection had been in existence while he was with them, there was none to be disappointed now that he had gone.
Grace was abased16 when, by degrees, she found that she had never understood Giles as Marty had done. Marty South alone, of all the women in Hintock and the world, had approximated to Winterborne’s level of intelligent intercourse17 with nature. In that respect she had formed the complement18 to him in the other sex, had lived as his counterpart, had subjoined her thought to his as a corollary.
The casual glimpses which the ordinary population bestowed19 upon that wondrous20 world of sap and leaves called the Hintock woods had been with these two, Giles and Marty, a clear gaze. They had been possessed21 of its finer mysteries as of commonplace knowledge; had been able to read its hieroglyphs22 as ordinary writing; to them the sights and sounds of night, winter, wind, storm, amid those dense23 boughs24, which had to Grace a touch of the uncanny, and even the supernatural, were simple occurrences whose origin, continuance, and laws they foreknew. They had planted together, and together they had felled; together they had, with the run of the years, mentally collected those remoter signs and symbols which, seen in few, were of runic obscurity, but all together made an alphabet. From the light lashing26 of the twigs27 upon their faces, when brushing through them in the dark, they could pronounce upon the species of the tree whence they stretched; from the quality of the wind’s murmur1 through a bough25 they could in like manner name its sort afar off. They knew by a glance at a trunk if its heart were sound, or tainted28 with incipient29 decay, and by the state of its upper twigs, the stratum30 that had been reached by its roots. The artifices31 of the seasons were seen by them from the conjuror’s own point of view, and not from that of the spectator’s.
“He ought to have married YOU, Marty, and nobody else in the world!” said Grace, with conviction, after thinking somewhat in the above strain.
Marty shook her head. “In all our out-door days and years together, ma’am,” she replied, “the one thing he never spoke32 of to me was love; nor I to him.”
“Yet you and he could speak in a tongue that nobody else knew — not even my father, though he came nearest knowing — the tongue of the trees and fruits and flowers themselves.”
She could indulge in mournful fancies like this to Marty; but the hard core to her grief — which Marty’s had not — remained. Had she been sure that Giles’s death resulted entirely33 from his exposure, it would have driven her well-nigh to insanity34; but there was always that bare possibility that his exposure had only precipitated35 what was inevitable36. She longed to believe that it had not done even this.
There was only one man whose opinion on the circumstances she would be at all disposed to trust. Her husband was that man. Yet to ask him it would be necessary to detail the true conditions in which she and Winterborne had lived during these three or four critical days that followed her flight; and in withdrawing her original defiant37 announcement on that point, there seemed a weakness she did not care to show. She never doubted that Fitzpiers would believe her if she made a clean confession38 of the actual situation; but to volunteer the correction would seem like signalling for a truce39, and that, in her present frame of mind, was what she did not feel the need of.
It will probably not appear a surprising statement, after what has been already declared of Fitzpiers, that the man whom Grace’s fidelity40 could not keep faithful was stung into passionate41 throbs42 of interest concerning her by her avowal43 of the contrary.
He declared to himself that he had never known her dangerously full compass if she were capable of such a reprisal44; and, melancholy45 as it may be to admit the fact, his own humiliation46 and regret engendered47 a smouldering admiration48 of her.
He passed a month or two of great misery49 at Exbury, the place to which he had retired50 — quite as much misery indeed as Grace, could she have known of it, would have been inclined to inflict51 upon any living creature, how much soever he might have wronged her. Then a sudden hope dawned upon him; he wondered if her affirmation were true. He asked himself whether it were not the act of a woman whose natural purity and innocence52 had blinded her to the contingencies53 of such an announcement. His wide experience of the sex had taught him that, in many cases, women who ventured on hazardous54 matters did so because they lacked an imagination sensuous55 enough to feel their full force. In this light Grace’s bold avowal might merely have denoted the desperation of one who was a child to the realities of obliquity56.
Fitzpiers’s mental sufferings and suspense57 led him at last to take a melancholy journey to the neighborhood of Little Hintock; and here he hovered58 for hours around the scene of the purest emotional experiences that he had ever known in his life. He walked about the woods that surrounded Melbury’s house, keeping out of sight like a criminal. It was a fine evening, and on his way homeward he passed near Marty South’s cottage. As usual she had lighted her candle without closing her shutters59; he saw her within as he had seen her many times before.
She was polishing tools, and though he had not wished to show himself, he could not resist speaking in to her through the half-open door. “What are you doing that for, Marty?”
“Because I want to clean them. They are not mine.” He could see, indeed, that they were not hers, for one was a spade, large and heavy, and another was a bill-hook which she could only have used with both hands. The spade, though not a new one, had been so completely burnished60 that it was bright as silver.
Fitzpiers somehow divined that they were Giles Winterborne’s, and he put the question to her.
She replied in the affirmative. “I am going to keep ’em,” she said, “but I can’t get his apple-mill and press. I wish could; it is going to be sold, they say.”
“Then I will buy it for you,” said Fitzpiers. “That will be making you a return for a kindness you did me.” His glance fell upon the girl’s rare-colored hair, which had grown again. “Oh, Marty, those locks of yours — and that letter! But it was a kindness to send it, nevertheless,” he added, musingly61.
After this there was confidence between them — such confidence as there had never been before. Marty was shy, indeed, of speaking about the letter, and her motives62 in writing it; but she thanked him warmly for his promise of the cider-press. She would travel with it in the autumn season, as he had done, she said. She would be quite strong enough, with old Creedle as an assistant.
“Ah! there was one nearer to him than you,” said Fitzpiers, referring to Winterborne. “One who lived where he lived, and was with him when he died.”
Then Marty, suspecting that he did not know the true circumstances, from the fact that Mrs. Fitzpiers and himself were living apart, told him of Giles’s generosity63 to Grace in giving up his house to her at the risk, and possibly the sacrifice, of his own life. When the surgeon heard it he almost envied Giles his chivalrous64 character. He expressed a wish to Marty that his visit to her should be kept secret, and went home thoughtful, feeling that in more that one sense his journey to Hintock had not been in vain.
He would have given much to win Grace’s forgiveness then. But whatever he dared hope for in that kind from the future, there was nothing to be done yet, while Giles Winterborne’s memory was green. To wait was imperative65. A little time might melt her frozen thoughts, and lead her to look on him with toleration, if not with love.
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1
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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6
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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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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13
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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19
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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21
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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22
hieroglyphs
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| n.象形字（如古埃及等所用的）( hieroglyph的名词复数 )；秘密的或另有含意的书写符号 | |
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23
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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27
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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28
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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32
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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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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34
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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35
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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36
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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38
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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39
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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40
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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41
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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42
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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43
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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44
reprisal
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| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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45
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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46
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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47
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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49
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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50
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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51
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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52
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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53
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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54
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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55
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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56
obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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57
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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58
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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59
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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60
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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61
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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62
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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63
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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64
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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65
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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