Weeks and months of mourning for Winterborne had been passed by Grace

in the soothing monotony of the memorial act to which she and Marty had

devoted themselves. Twice a week the pair went in the dusk to Great

Hintock, and, like the two mourners in Cymbeline, sweetened his sad

grave with their flowers and their tears. Sometimes Grace thought that

it was a pity neither one of them had been his wife for a little while,

and given the world a copy of him who was so valuable in their eyes.

Nothing ever had brought home to her with such force as this death how

little acquirements and culture weigh beside sterling personal

character. While her simple sorrow for his loss took a softer edge with

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the lapse of the autumn and winter seasons, her self-reproach at having

had a possible hand in causing it knew little abatement.

Little occurred at Hintock during these months of the fall and decay of

the leaf. Discussion of the almost contemporaneous death of Mrs.

Charmond abroad had waxed and waned. Fitzpiers had had a marvellous

escape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, through

the accident of their having parted just before under the influence of

Marty South's letter--the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature.

Her body was not brought home. It seemed to accord well with the

fitful fever of that impassioned woman's life that she should not have

found a native grave. She had enjoyed but a life-interest in the

estate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of her

husband's--one who knew not Felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to

blot out every vestige of her.

On a certain day in February--the cheerful day of St. Valentine, in

fact--a letter reached Mrs. Fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised

her for that particular day a long time before.

It announced that Fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he

had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical

man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set

them right. He had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of

tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a

substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget

the past and bring herself to join him.

There the practical part ended; he then went on--

"My last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear Grace

and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. You may be

absolutely indifferent to what I say, but let me say it: I have never

loved any woman alive or dead as I love, respect, and honor you at this

present moment. What you told me in the pride and haughtiness of your

heart I never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; but

even if I had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you.

Is there any use in telling you--no, there is not--that I dream of your

ripe lips more frequently than I say my prayers; that the old familiar

rustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me?

If you could condescend even only to see me again you would be

breathing life into a corpse. My pure, pure Grace, modest as a

turtledove, how came I ever to possess you? For the sake of being

present in your mind on this lovers' day, I think I would almost rather

have you hate me a little than not think of me at all. You may call my

fancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that 'nature is one

in love, and where 'tis fine it sends some instance of itself.' I will

not intrude upon you further now. Make me a little bit happy by

sending back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to a

short interview. I will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance,

if you will only afford me this slight means of making a few

explanations, and of putting my position before you. Believe me, in

spite of all you may do or feel, Your lover always (once your husband), "E."




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