"I beg your pardon," said she, with vibrations of strong feeling in her words. "I have been placed in a position which hinders such outgrowings. Besides, I don't believe that the genuine subjects of emotion do outgrow them; I believe that the older such people get the worse they are. Possibly at ninety or a hundred they may feel they are cured; but a mere threescore and ten won't do it--at least for me."
He gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Here was a soul of souls!
"Mrs. Charmond, you speak truly," he exclaimed. "But you speak sadly as well. Why is that?"
"I always am sad when I come here," she said, dropping to a low tone with a sense of having been too demonstrative.
"Then may I inquire why you came?"
"A man brought me. Women are always carried about like corks upon the waves of masculine desires....I hope I have not alarmed you; but Hintock has the curious effect of bottling up the emotions till one can no longer hold them; I am often obliged to fly away and discharge my sentiments somewhere, or I should die outright."
"There is very good society in the county for those who have the privilege of entering it."
"Perhaps so. But the misery of remote country life is that your neighbors have no toleration for difference of opinion and habit.
My neighbors think I am an atheist, except those who think I am a Roman Catholic; and when I speak disrespectfully of the weather or the crops they think I am a blasphemer."
She broke into a low musical laugh at the idea.
"You don't wish me to stay any longer?" he inquired, when he found that she remained musing.
"No--I think not."
"Then tell me that I am to be gone."
"Why? Cannot you go without?"
"I may consult my own feelings only, if left to myself."
"Well, if you do, what then? Do you suppose you'll be in my way?"
"I feared it might be so."
"Then fear no more. But good-night. Come to-morrow and see if I am going on right. This renewal of acquaintance touches me. I have already a friendship for you."
"If it depends upon myself it shall last forever."
"My best hopes that it may. Good-by."
Fitzpiers went down the stairs absolutely unable to decide whether she had sent for him in the natural alarm which might have followed her mishap, or with the single view of ****** herself known to him as she had done, for which the capsize had afforded excellent opportunity. Outside the house he mused over the spot under the light of the stars. 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 assumed 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 circumstances, 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 passage 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 fishing 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.
