The Woodlanders

Creedle.⁠ ⁠… But Lord, there; I don’t mind ’em myself⁠—them small ones, for they were born on cabbage, and they’ve lived on cabbage, so they must be made of cabbage. But she, the closemouthed little lady, she didn’t say a word about it; though ’twould have made good small conversation as to the nater of such creatures; especially as wit ran short among us sometimes.”
“Oh yes⁠—’tis all over!” murmured Giles to himself, shaking his head over the glooming plain of embers, and lining his forehead more than ever. “Do you know, Robert,” he said, “that she’s been accustomed to servants and everything superfine these many years? How, then, could she stand our ways?”
“Well, all I can say is, then, that she ought to hob-and-nob elsewhere. They shouldn’t have schooled her so monstrous high, or else bachelor men shouldn’t give randys, or if they do give ’em, only to their own race.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” said Winterborne, rising and yawning a sigh.

XI
“ ’Tis a pity⁠—a thousand pities!” her father kept saying next morning at breakfast, Grace being still in her bedroom.
But how could he, with any self-respect, obstruct Winterborne’s suit at this stage, and nullify a scheme he had labored to promote⁠—was, indeed, mechanically promoting at this moment? A crisis was approaching, mainly as a result of his contrivances, and it would have to be met.
But here was the fact, which could not be disguised: since seeing what an immense change her last twelve months of absence had produced in his daughter, after the heavy sum per annum that he had been spending for several years upon her education, he was reluctant to let her marry Giles Winterborne, indefinitely occupied as woodsman, cider-merchant, apple-farmer, and whatnot, even were she willing to marry him herself.
“She will be his wife if you don’t upset her notion that she’s bound to accept him as an understood thing,” said  Mrs. Melbury. “Bless ye, she’ll soon shake down here in Hintock, and be content with Giles’s way of living, which he’ll improve with what money she’ll have from you. ’Tis the strangeness after her genteel life that makes her feel uncomfortable at first. Why, when I saw Hintock the first time I thought I never could like it. But things gradually get familiar, and stone floors seem not so very cold and hard, and the hooting of the owls not so very dreadful, and loneliness not so very lonely, after a while.”
“Yes, I believe ye. That’s just it. I know Grace will gradually sink down to our level again, and catch our manners and way of speaking, and feel a drowsy content in being Giles’s wife. But I can’t bear the thought of dragging down to that old level as promising a piece of maidenhood as ever lived⁠—fit to ornament a palace wi’⁠—that I’ve taken so much trouble to lift up. Fancy her white hands getting redder every day, and her tongue losing its pretty upcountry curl in talking, and her bounding walk becoming the regular Hintock shail and wamble!”
“She may shail, but she’ll never wamble,” replied his wife, decisively.
When Grace came downstairs he complained of her lying in bed so late; not so much moved by a particular objection to that form of indulgence as discomposed by these other reflections.
The corners of her pretty mouth dropped a little down. “You used to complain with justice when I was a girl,” she said. “But I am a woman now, and can judge for myself.⁠ ⁠… But it is not that; it is something else!” Instead of sitting down she went outside the door.
He was sorry. The petulance that relatives show towards each other is in truth directed against that intangible Causality which has shaped the situation no less for the offenders than the offended, but is too elusive to be discerned and cornered by poor humanity in irritated mood. Melbury followed her. She had rambled on to the paddock, where the white frost lay, and where starlings in flocks of twenties and thirties were walking about, watched by a comfortable family of sparrows perched in a line along the string-course of the chimney, preening themselves in the rays of the sun.
“Come in to breakfast, my girl,” he said. “And as to Giles, use your own mind. Whatever pleases you will please me.”
“I am promised to him, father; and I cannot help thinking that in honor I ought to marry him, whenever I do marry.”
He had a strong suspicion that somewhere in the bottom of her heart there pulsed an old simple indigenous feeling favorable to Giles, though it had become overlaid with implanted tastes. But he would not distinctly express his views on the promise. “Very well,” he said. “But I hope I shan’t lose you yet. Come in to breakfast. What did you think of the inside of Hintock House the other day?”
“I liked it much.”
“Different from friend Winterborne’s?”
She said nothing; but he who knew her was aware that she meant by her silence to reproach him with drawing cruel comparisons.
“ Mrs. Charmond has asked you to come again⁠—when, did you say?”
“She thought Tuesday, but would send the day before to let me know if it suited her.” And with this subject upon their lips they entered to breakfast.
Tuesday came, but no message from  Mrs. Charmond. Nor was there any on Wednesday. In brief, a fortnight slipped by without a sign, and it looked suspiciously as if  Mrs. Charmond were not going further in the direction of “taking up” Grace at present.
Her father reasoned thereon. Immediately after his daughter’s two indubitable successes with  Mrs. Charmond⁠—the interview in the wood and a visit to the House⁠—she had attended Winterborne’s party. No doubt the out-and-out joviality of that gathering had made it a topic in the neighborhood, and that everyone present as guests had been widely spoken of⁠—Grace, with her exceptional qualities, above all. What, then, so natural as that  Mrs. Charmond should have heard the village news, and become quite disappointed in her expectations of Grace at finding she kept such