“ ’Od name it all,” murmured the timber-merchant, unimpressed by the news, but reminded of other things by the subject of it; “I’ve got to meet a gentleman this very morning? and yet I’ve planned to go to Sherton Abbas for the maid.”
“I won’t praise the doctor’s wisdom till I hear what sort of bargain he’s made,” said the top-sawyer.
“ ’Tis only an old woman’s tale,” said Bawtree. “But it seems that he wanted certain books on some mysterious science or black-art, and in order that the people hereabout should not know anything about his dark readings, he ordered ’em direct from London, and not from the Sherton bookseller. The parcel was delivered by mistake at the pa’son’s, and he wasn’t at home; so his wife opened it, and went into hysterics when she read ’em, thinking her husband had turned heathen, and ’twould be the ruin of the children. But when he came he said he knew no more about ’em than she; and found they were this Mr. Fitzpier’s property. So he wrote ‘Beware!’ outside, and sent ’em on by the sexton.”
“He must be a curious young man,” mused the hollow-turner.
“He must,” said Timothy Tangs.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Melbury, authoritatively, “he’s only a gentleman fond of science and philosophy and poetry, and, in fact, every kind of knowledge; and being lonely here, he passes his time in making such matters his hobby.”
“Well,” said old Timothy, “ ’tis a strange thing about doctors that the worse they be the better they be. I mean that if you hear anything of this sort about ’em, ten to one they can cure ye as nobody else can.”
“True,” said Bawtree, emphatically. “And for my part I shall take my custom from old Jones and go to this one directly I’ve anything the matter with me. That last medicine old Jones gave me had no taste in it at all.”
Mr. Melbury, as became a well-informed man, did not listen to these recitals, being moreover preoccupied with the business appointment which had come into his head. He walked up and down, looking on the floor—his usual custom when undecided. That stiffness about the arm, hip, and knee-joint which was apparent when he walked was the net product of the diverse sprains and over-exertions that had been required of him in handling trees and timber when a young man, for he was of the sort called self-made, and had worked hard. He knew the origin of every one of these cramps: that in his left shoulder had come of carrying a pollard, unassisted, from Tutcombe Bottom home; that in one leg was caused by the crash of an elm against it when they were felling; that in the other was from lifting a bole. On many a morrow after wearying himself by these prodigious muscular efforts, he had risen from his bed fresh as usual; his lassitude had departed, apparently forever; and confident in the recuperative power of his youth, he had repeated the strains anew. But treacherous Time had been only hiding ill results when they could be guarded against, for greater accumulation when they could not. In his declining years the store had been unfolded in the form of rheumatisms, pricks, and spasms, in every one of which Melbury recognized some act which, had its consequence been contemporaneously made known, he would wisely have abstained from repeating.
On a summons by Grammer Oliver to breakfast, he left the shed. Reaching the kitchen, where the family breakfasted in winter to save house-labor, he sat down by the fire, and looked a long time at the pair of dancing shadows cast by each fire-iron and dog-knob on the whitewashed chimney-corner—a yellow one from the window, and a blue one from the fire.
“I don’t quite know what to do today,” he said to his wife at last. “I’ve recollected that I promised to meet Mrs. Charmond’s steward in Round Wood at twelve o’clock, and yet I want to go for Grace.”
“Why not let Giles fetch her by himself? ’Twill bring ’em together all the quicker.”
“I could do that—but I should like to go myself. I always have gone, without fail, every time hitherto. It has been a great pleasure to drive into Sherton, and wait and see her arrive; and perhaps she’ll be disappointed if I stay away.”
“You may be disappointed, but I don’t think she will, if you send Giles,” said Mrs. Melbury, dryly.
“Very well—I’ll send him.”
Melbury was often persuaded by the quietude of his wife’s words when strenuous argument would have had no effect. This second Mrs. Melbury was a placid woman, who had been nurse to his child Grace before her mother’s death. After that melancholy event little Grace had clung to the nurse with much affection; and ultimately Melbury, in dread lest the only woman who cared for the girl should be induced to leave her, persuaded the mild Lucy to marry him. The arrangement—for it was little more—had worked satisfactorily enough; Grace had thriven, and Melbury had not repented.
He returned to the spar-house and found Giles near at hand, to whom he explained the change of plan. “As she won’t arrive till five o’clock, you can get your business very well over in time to receive her,” said Melbury. “The green gig will do for her; you’ll spin along quicker with that, and won’t be late upon the road. Her boxes can be called for by one of the wagons.”
Winterborne, knowing nothing of the timber-merchant’s restitutory aims, quietly thought all this to be a kindly chance. Wishing even more than her father to despatch his apple-tree business in the market before Grace’s arrival, he prepared to start at once.
Melbury was careful that the turnout should be seemly. The gig-wheels, for instance, were not always washed during wintertime before a journey, the
