The unwonted, perplexing, agitating relations in which she had stood to Winterborne quite lately—brought about by Melbury’s own contrivance—could not fail to soften the natural anger of a parent at her more recent doings. “My daughter, things are bad,” he rejoined. “But why do you persevere to make ’em worse? What good can you do to Giles by staying here with him? Mind, I ask no questions. I don’t inquire why you decided to come here, or anything as to what your course would have been if he had not died, though I know there’s no deliberate harm in ye. As for me, I have lost all claim upon you, and I make no complaint. But I do say that by coming back with me now you will show no less kindness to him, and escape any sound of shame.
“But I don’t wish to escape it.”
“If you don’t on your own account, cannot you wish to on mine and hers? Nobody except our household knows that you have left home. Then why should you, by a piece of perverseness, bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?”
“If it were not for my husband—” she began, moved by his words. “But how can I meet him there? How can any woman who is not a mere man’s creature join him after what has taken place?”
“He would go away again rather than keep you out of my house.”
“How do you know that, father?”
“We met him on our way here, and he told us so,” said Mrs. Melbury. “He had said something like it before. He seems very much upset altogether.”
“He declared to her when he came to our house that he would wait for time and devotion to bring about his forgiveness,” said her husband. “That was it, wasn’t it, Lucy?”
“Yes. That he would not intrude upon you, Grace, till you gave him absolute permission,” Mrs. Melbury added.
This antecedent considerateness in Fitzpiers was as welcome to Grace as it was unexpected; and though she did not desire his presence, she was sorry that by her retaliatory fiction she had given him a different reason for avoiding her. She made no further objections to accompanying her parents, taking them into the inner room to give Winterborne a last look, and gathering up the two or three things that belonged to her. While she was doing this the two women came who had been called by Melbury, and at their heels poor Creedle.