The Woodlanders

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?"