Winterborne's contract was completed, and the plantations were
deserted. It was dusk; there were no leaves as yet; the nightingales
would not begin to sing for a fortnight; and "the Mother of the Months"
was in her most attenuated phase--starved and bent to a mere bowed
skeleton, which glided along behind the bare twigs in Fitzpiers's
company.

When he reached home he went straight up to his wife's sitting-room.
He found it deserted, and without a fire. He had mentioned no day for
his return; nevertheless, he wondered why she was not there waiting to
receive him. On descending to the other wing of the house and
inquiring of Mrs. Melbury, he learned with much surprise that Grace had
gone on a visit to an acquaintance at Shottsford-Forum three days
earlier; that tidings had on this morning reached her father of her
being very unwell there, in consequence of which he had ridden over to
see her.

Fitzpiers went up-stairs again, and the little drawing-room, now
lighted by a solitary candle, was not rendered more cheerful by the
entrance of Grammer Oliver with an apronful of wood, which she threw on
the hearth while she raked out the grate and rattled about the
fire-irons, with a view to making things comfortable. Fitzpiers
considered that Grace ought to have let him know her plans more
accurately before leaving home in a freak like this. He went
desultorily to the window, the blind of which had not been pulled down,
and looked out at the thin, fast-sinking moon, and at the tall stalk of
smoke rising from the top of Suke Damson's chimney, signifying that the
young woman had just lit her fire to prepare supper.