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As he approached the door of Marty South's cottage, which it was necessary to pass on his way, she came from the porch as if she had been awaiting him, and met him in the middle of the road, holding up a letter. Fitzpiers took it without stopping, and asked over his shoulder from whom it came. Marty hesitated. "From me," she said, shyly, though with noticeable firmness.
Unluckily the tree waved afresh by this time, a wind having sprung up and blown the fog away, and his eyes turned with its wavings. They heard footsteps a man's, but of a lighter type than usual. "There is Doctor Fitzpiers again," she said, and descended. Presently his tread was heard on the naked stairs. Mr.
The truth was that he had never come into close comradeship with her since her engagement to Fitzpiers, with the brief exception of the evening encounter on Rubdown Hill, when she met him with his cider apparatus; and that interview had been of too cursory a kind for insight. Winterborne had advanced, too. He could criticise her.
She paused breathlessly once or twice, and fancied that she could hear, above the beat of her strumming pulse, the vehicle containing Fitzpiers turning in at the gate of her father's premises. She hastened on again. The Hintock woods owned by Mrs.
Fitzpiers had quickly stepped forward in front of Winterborne, who, disdaining to shift his position, had turned on his heel, and then the surgeon did what he would not have thought of doing but for Mrs. Melbury's encouragement and the sentiment of an eve which effaced conventionality.
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.
"So she is," said Winterborne, "but not to me." From this ambiguous expression of the reticent woodlander's, Dr. Fitzpiers inferred that Giles disliked Miss Melbury because of some haughtiness in her bearing towards him, and had, on that account, withheld her name. The supposition did not tend to diminish his admiration for her.
"You may imagine," Fitzpiers continued, now persuaded that it had, indeed, been a dream, "that I should not have dreamed of you without considerable thinking about you first." He could not be acting; of that she felt assured. "I fancied in my vision that you stood there," he said, pointing to where she had paused. "I did not see you directly, but reflected in the glass.
"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.
Charmond, of whom he had heard so much at any rate an inmate, and this probability was sufficient to set a mild radiance in the surgeon's somewhat dull sky. Fitzpiers sat down to the book he had been perusing.
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