It was not to be done thus, after all: plainness and candor were best.
She went back a third time; he did not see her now, and she lingeringly
gazed up at his unconscious figure, loath to put an end to any kind of
hope that might live on in him still. "Giles-- Mr. Winterborne," she
said.
He was so high amid the fog that he did not hear. "Mr. Winterborne!"
she cried again, and this time he stopped, looked down, and replied.
"My silence just now was not accident," she said, in an unequal voice.
"My father says it is best not to think too much of that--engagement,
or understanding between us, that you know of. I, too, think that upon
the whole he is right. But we are friends, you know, Giles, and almost
relations."
"Very well," he answered, as if without surprise, in a voice which
barely reached down the tree. "I have nothing to say in objection--I
cannot say anything till I've thought a while."
She added, with emotion in her tone, "For myself, I would have married
you--some day--I think. But I give way, for I see it would be unwise."
He made no reply, but sat back upon a bough, placed his elbow in a
fork, and rested his head upon his hand. Thus he remained till the fog
and the night had completely enclosed him from her view.
Grace heaved a divided sigh, with a tense pause between, and moved
onward, her heart feeling uncomfortably big and heavy, and her eyes
wet. Had Giles, instead of remaining still, immediately come down from
the tree to her, would she have continued in that filial acquiescent
frame of mind which she had announced to him as final? If it be true,
as women themselves have declared, that one of their sex is never so
much inclined to throw in her lot with a man for good and all as five
minutes after she has told him such a thing cannot be, the
probabilities are that something might have been done by the appearance
of Winterborne on the ground beside Grace. But he continued motionless
and silent in that gloomy Niflheim or fog-land which involved him, and
she proceeded on her way.
The spot seemed now to be quite deserted. The light from South's
window made rays on the fog, but did not reach the tree. A quarter of
an hour passed, and all was blackness overhead. Giles had not yet come
down.
Then the tree seemed to shiver, then to heave a sigh; a movement was
audible, and Winterborne dropped almost noiselessly to the ground. He
had thought the matter out, and having returned the ladder and billhook
to their places, pursued his way homeward. He would not allow this
incident to affect his outer conduct any more than the danger to his
leaseholds had done, and went to bed as usual. Two simultaneous
troubles do not always make a double trouble; and thus it came to pass
that Giles's practical anxiety about his houses, which would have been
enough to keep him awake half the night at any other time, was
displaced and not reinforced by his sentimental trouble about Grace
Melbury. This severance was in truth more like a burial of her than a
rupture with her; but he did not realize so much at present; even when
he arose in the morning he felt quite moody and stern: as yet the
second note in the gamut of such emotions, a tender regret for his
loss, had not made itself heard.