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 title. 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 scrape had turned the color of an unripe blackberry previous to vanishing 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 space. 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 space 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.
“I should have seen you again.”
“And then?”
“Then the fire would have burned higher and higher. What would have immediately followed I know not; but sorrow and sickness of heart at last.”
“Why?”
“Well — that’s the end of all love, according to Nature’s law. I can give no other reason.”
“Oh, don’t speak like that,” she exclaimed. “Since we are only picturing the possibilities of that time, don’t, for pity’s sake, spoil the picture.” Her voice sank almost to a whisper as she added, with an incipient pout upon her full lips, “Let me think at least that if you had really loved me at all seriously, you would have loved me for ever and ever!”
“You are right — think it with all your heart,” said he. “It is a pleasant thought, and costs nothing.”
She weighed that remark in silence a while. “Did you ever hear anything of me from then till now?” she inquired.
“Not a word.”
“So much the better. I had to fight the battle of life as well as you. I may tell you about it some day. But don’t ever ask me to do it, and particularly do not press me to tell you now.”
Thus the two or three days that they had spent in tender acquaintance on the romantic slopes above the Neckar were stretched out in retrospect to the length and importance of years; made to form a canvas for infinite fancies, idle dreams, luxurious melancholies, and sweet, alluring assertions which could neither be proved nor disproved. Grace was never mentioned between them, but a rumor of his proposed domestic changes somehow reached her ears.
“Doctor, you are going away,” she exclaimed, confronting him with accusatory reproach in her large dark eyes no less than in her rich cooing voice. “Oh yes, you are,” she went on, springing to her feet with an air which might almost have been called passionate. “It is no use denying it. You have bought a practice at Budmouth. I don’t blame you. Nobody can live at Hintock — least of all a professional man who wants to keep abreast of recent discovery. And there is nobody here to induce such a one to stay for other reasons. That’s right, that’s right — go away!”
“But no, I have not actually bought the practice as yet, though I am indeed in treaty for it. And, my dear friend, if I continue to feel about the business as I feel at this moment — perhaps I may conclude never to go at all.”
“But you hate Hintock, and everybody and everything in it that you don’t mean to take away with you?”
Fitzpiers contradicted this idea in his most vibratory tones, and she lapsed into the frivolous archness under which she hid passions of no mean strength — strange, smouldering, erratic passions, kept down like a stifled conflagration, but bursting out now here, now there — the only certain element in their direction being its unexpectedness. If one word could have expressed her it would have been Inconsequence. She was a woman of perversities, delighting in frequent contrasts. She liked mystery, in her life, in her love, in her history. To be fair to her, there was nothing in the latter which she had any great reason to be ashamed of, and many things of which she might have been proud; but it had never been fathomed by the honest minds of Hintock, and she rarely volunteered her experiences. As for her capricious nature, the people on her estates grew accustomed to it, and with that marvellous subtlety of contrivance in steering round odd tempers, that is found in sons of the soil and dependants generally, they managed to get along under her government rather better than they would have done beneath a more equable rule.
Now, with regard to the doctor’s notion of leaving Hintock, he had advanced furthur towards completing the purchase of the Budmouth surgeon’s good-will than he had admitted to Mrs. Charmond. The whole matter hung upon what he might do in the ensuing twenty-four hours. The evening after leaving her he went out into the lane, and walked and pondered between the high hedges, now greenish-white with wild clematis — here called “old-man’s beard,” from its aspect later in the year.
The letter of acceptance was to be written that night, after which his departure from Hintock would be irrevocable. But could he go away, remembering what had just passed? The trees, the hills, the leaves, the grass — each had been endowed and quickened with a subtle charm since he had discovered the person and history, and, above all, mood of their owner. There was every temporal reason for leaving; it would be entering again into a world which he had only quitted in a passion for isolation, induced by a fit of Achillean moodiness after an imagined slight. His wife herself saw the awkwardness of their position here, and cheerfully welcomed the purposed change, towards which every step had been taken but the last. But could he find it in his heart — as he found it clearly enough in his conscience — to go away?
He drew a troubled breath, and went indoors. Here he rapidly penned a letter, wherein he withdrew once for all from the treaty for the Budmouth practice. As the postman had already left Little Hintock for that night, he sent one of Melbury’s men to intercept a mail-cart on another turnpike-road, and so got the letter off.
The man returned, met Fitzpiers in the lane, and told him the thing was done. Fitzpiers went back to his house musing. Why had he carried out this impulse — taken such wild trouble to effect a probable injury to his own and his young wife’s prospects? His motive was fantastic, glowing, shapeless as the fiery scenery about the western sky. Mrs. Charmond could overtly be nothing more to him than a patient now, and to his wife, at the outside, a patron. In the unattached bachelor days of his first sojourning here how highly proper an emotional reason for lingering on would have appeared to troublesome dubiousness. Matrimonial ambition is such an honorable thing.
“My father has told me that you have sent off one of the men with a late letter to Budmouth,” cried Grace, coming out vivaciously to meet him under the declining light of the sky, wherein hung, solitary, the folding star. “I said at once that you had finally agreed to pay the premium they ask, and that the tedious question had been settled. When do we go, Edgar?”
“I have altered my mind,” said he. “They want too much — seven hundred and fifty is too large a sum — and in short, I have declined to go further. We must wait for another opportunity. I fear I am not a good business-man.” He spoke the last words with a momentary faltering at the great foolishness of his act; for, as he looked i............