Part 30 (2/2)

It seemed very strange that he should have come there more than once when its inhabitant was absent, and observed the house with a nameless interest; that he should have a.s.sumed off-hand before he knew Grace that it was here she lived; that, in short, at sundry times and seasons the individuality of Hintock House should have forced itself upon him as appertaining to some existence with which he was concerned.

The intersection of his temporal orbit with Mrs. Charmond's for a day or two in the past had created a sentimental interest in her at the time, but it had been so evanescent that in the ordinary onward roll of affairs he would scarce ever have recalled it again. To find her here, however, in these somewhat romantic circ.u.mstances, magnified that by-gone and transitory tenderness to indescribable proportions.

On entering Little Hintock he found himself regarding it in a new way--from the Hintock House point of view rather than from his own and the Melburys'. The household had all gone to bed, and as he went up-stairs he heard the snore of the timber-merchant from his quarter of the building, and turned into the pa.s.sage communicating with his own rooms in a strange access of sadness. A light was burning for him in the chamber; but Grace, though in bed, was not asleep. In a moment her sympathetic voice came from behind the curtains.

”Edgar, is she very seriously hurt?”

Fitzpiers had so entirely lost sight of Mrs. Charmond as a patient that he was not on the instant ready with a reply.

”Oh no,” he said. ”There are no bones broken, but she is shaken. I am going again to-morrow.”

Another inquiry or two, and Grace said,

”Did she ask for me?”

”Well--I think she did--I don't quite remember; but I am under the impression that she spoke of you.”

”Cannot you recollect at all what she said?”

”I cannot, just this minute.”

”At any rate she did not talk much about me?” said Grace with disappointment.

”Oh no.”

”But you did, perhaps,” she added, innocently fis.h.i.+ng for a compliment.

”Oh yes--you may depend upon that!” replied he, warmly, though scarcely thinking of what he was saving, so vividly was there present to his mind the personality of Mrs. Charmond.

CHAPTER XXVII.

The doctor's professional visit to Hintock House was promptly repeated the next day and the next. He always found Mrs. Charmond reclining on a sofa, and behaving generally as became a patient who was in no great hurry to lose that t.i.tle. On each occasion he looked gravely at the little scratch on her arm, as if it had been a serious wound.

He had also, to his further satisfaction, found a slight scar on her temple, and it was very convenient to put a piece of black plaster on this conspicuous part of her person in preference to gold-beater's skin, so that it might catch the eyes of the servants, and make his presence appear decidedly necessary, in case there should be any doubt of the fact.

”Oh--you hurt me!” she exclaimed one day.

He was peeling off the bit of plaster on her arm, under which the sc.r.a.pe had turned the color of an unripe blackberry previous to vanis.h.i.+ng altogether. ”Wait a moment, then--I'll damp it,” said Fitzpiers. He put his lips to the place and kept them there till the plaster came off easily. ”It was at your request I put it on,” said he.

”I know it,” she replied. ”Is that blue vein still in my temple that used to show there? The scar must be just upon it. If the cut had been a little deeper it would have spilt my hot blood indeed!”

Fitzpiers examined so closely that his breath touched her tenderly, at which their eyes rose to an encounter--hers showing themselves as deep and mysterious as interstellar s.p.a.ce. She turned her face away suddenly. ”Ah! none of that! none of that--I cannot coquet with you!”

she cried. ”Don't suppose I consent to for one moment. Our poor, brief, youthful hour of love-making was too long ago to bear continuing now. It is as well that we should understand each other on that point before we go further.”

”Coquet! Nor I with you. As it was when I found the historic gloves, so it is now. I might have been and may be foolish; but I am no trifler. I naturally cannot forget that little s.p.a.ce in which I flitted across the field of your vision in those days of the past, and the recollection opens up all sorts of imaginings.”

”Suppose my mother had not taken me away?” she murmured, her dreamy eyes resting on the swaying tip of a distant tree.

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