Part 31 (2/2)
”What does it all mean?” he asked.
She sat in an easy-chair, her face being turned away. ”Oh,” she murmured, ”it is because the world is so dreary outside. Sorrow and bitterness in the sky, and floods of agonized tears beating against the panes. I lay awake last night, and I could hear the sc.r.a.pe of snails creeping up the window-gla.s.s; it was so sad! My eyes were so heavy this morning that I could have wept my life away. I cannot bear you to see my face; I keep it away from you purposely. Oh! why were we given hungry hearts and wild desires if we have to live in a world like this?
Why should Death only lend what Life is compelled to borrow--rest?
Answer that, Dr. Fitzpiers.”
”You must eat of a second tree of knowledge before you can do it, Felice Charmond.”
”Then, when my emotions have exhausted themselves, I become full of fears, till I think I shall die for very fear. The terrible insistencies of society--how severe they are, and cold and inexorable--ghastly towards those who are made of wax and not of stone.
Oh, I am afraid of them; a stab for this error, and a stab for that--correctives and regulations framed that society may tend to perfection--an end which I don't care for in the least. Yet for this, all I do care for has to be stunted and starved.”
Fitzpiers had seated himself near her. ”What sets you in this mournful mood?” he asked, gently. (In reality he knew that it was the result of a loss of tone from staying in-doors so much, but he did not say so.)
”My reflections. Doctor, you must not come here any more. They begin to think it a farce already. I say you must come no more. There--don't be angry with me;” and she jumped up, pressed his hand, and looked anxiously at him. ”It is necessary. It is best for both you and me.”
”But,” said Fitzpiers, gloomily, ”what have we done?”
”Done--we have done nothing. Perhaps we have thought the more.
However, it is all vexation. I am going away to Middleton Abbey, near Shottsford, where a relative of my late husband lives, who is confined to her bed. The engagement was made in London, and I can't get out of it. Perhaps it is for the best that I go there till all this is past.
When are you going to enter on your new practice, and leave Hintock behind forever, with your pretty wife on your arm?”
”I have refused the opportunity. I love this place too well to depart.”
”You HAVE?” she said, regarding him with wild uncertainty.
”Why do you ruin yourself in that way? Great Heaven, what have I done!”
”Nothing. Besides, you are going away.”
”Oh yes; but only to Middleton Abbey for a month or two. Yet perhaps I shall gain strength there--particularly strength of mind--I require it.
And when I come back I shall be a new woman; and you can come and see me safely then, and bring your wife with you, and we'll be friends--she and I. Oh, how this shutting up of one's self does lead to indulgence in idle sentiments. I shall not wish you to give your attendance to me after to-day. But I am glad that you are not going away--if your remaining does not injure your prospects at all.”
As soon as he had left the room the mild friendliness she had preserved in her tone at parting, the playful sadness with which she had conversed with him, equally departed from her. She became as heavy as lead--just as she had been before he arrived. Her whole being seemed to dissolve in a sad powerlessness to do anything, and the sense of it made her lips tremulous and her closed eyes wet. His footsteps again startled her, and she turned round.
”I returned for a moment to tell you that the evening is going to be fine. The sun is s.h.i.+ning; so do open your curtains and put out those lights. Shall I do it for you?”
”Please--if you don't mind.”
He drew back the window-curtains, whereupon the red glow of the lamp and the two candle-flames became almost invisible with the flood of late autumn sunlight that poured in. ”Shall I come round to you?” he asked, her back being towards him.
”No,” she replied.
”Why not?”
”Because I am crying, and I don't want to see you.”
He stood a moment irresolute, and regretted that he had killed the rosy, pa.s.sionate lamplight by opening the curtains and letting in garish day.
<script>