“But how’s that? I saw the woman’s husband at Great Hintock just afore bedtime; and she was going on well, and the doctor gone then.”
“Then he’s detained somewhere else,” said Grace. “Never mind me; he will soon be home. I expect him about one.”
She went back to her room, and dozed and woke several times. One o’clock had been the hour of his return on the last occasion; but it passed now by a long way, and Fitzpiers did not come. Just before dawn she heard the men stirring in the yard; and the flashes of their lanterns spread every now and then through her window-blind. She remembered that her father had told her not to be disturbed if she noticed them, as they would be rising early to send off four loads of hurdles to a distant sheep-fair. Peeping out, she saw them bustling about, the hollow-turner among the rest; he was loading his wares—wooden-bowls, dishes, spigots, spoons, cheese-vats, funnels, and so on—upon one of her father’s wagons, who carried them to the fair for him every year out of neighborly kindness.
The scene and the occasion would have enlivened her but that her husband was still absent; though it was now five o’clock. She could hardly suppose him, whatever his infatuation, to have prolonged to a later hour than ten an ostensibly professional call on Mrs. Charmond at Middleton; and he could have ridden home in two hours and a half. What, then, had become of him? That he had been out the greater part of the two preceding nights added to her uneasiness.
She dressed herself, descended, and went out, the weird twilight of advancing day chilling the rays from the lanterns, and making the men’s faces wan. As soon as Melbury saw her he came round, showing his alarm.
“Edgar is not come,” she said. “And I have reason to know that he’s not attending anybody. He has had no rest for two nights before this. I was going to the top of the hill to look for him.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Melbury.
She begged him not to hinder himself; but he insisted, for he saw a peculiar and rigid gloom in her face over and above her uneasiness, and did not like the look of it. Telling the men he would be with them again soon, he walked beside her into the turnpike-road, and partly up the hill whence she had watched Fitzpiers the night before across the Great White Hart or Blackmoor Valley. They halted beneath a half-dead oak, hollow, and disfigured with white tumors, its roots spreading out like accipitrine claws grasping the ground. A chilly wind circled round them, upon whose currents the seeds of a neighboring lime-tree, supported parachute-wise by the wing attached, flew out of the boughs downward like fledglings from their nest. The vale was wrapped in a dim atmosphere of unnaturalness, and the east was like a livid curtain edged with pink. There was no sign nor sound of Fitzpiers.
“It is no use standing here,” said her father. “He may come home fifty ways...why, look here!—here be Darling’s tracks—turned homeward and nearly blown dry and hard! He must have come in hours ago without your seeing him.”
“He has not done that,” said she.