The Woodlanders, Thomas Hardy [book recommendations for young adults txt] 📗

and dismissed. The long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind than body, and she walked about her sitting-room 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 stepmother said nothing of Mrs. Charmond’s rumored sorrows and plans of departure.

So the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. She had left Hintock in a turmoil 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 upstairs with a slight air of flurry and abruptness.

“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 stepmother’s inquiry 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 streak of light from the partially closed door of Grace’s room fell upon her face as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale.

“Oh, Miss Melbury⁠—I would say Mrs. Fitzpiers,” she said, wringing 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 downstairs 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 footfall 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 ascended 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 downstairs,” 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 distress. “What is⁠—the matter⁠—tell me the worst! Can he live?” She looked at Grace imploringly, 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 ascertain 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 conceal 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 heeding her mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was