She was in a little boudoir or writing-room on the first floor, and
Fitzpiers was much surprised to find that the window-curtains were
closed and a red-shaded lamp and candles burning, though out-of-doors
it was broad daylight. Moreover, a large fire was burning in the
grate, though it was not cold.
"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 scrape of snails
creeping up the window-glass; 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?"