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Updated: June 12, 2025
It was these perceptions, and no subtle catching of her husband's murmurs, that had bred the abstraction visible in her. When her father approached the house after witnessing the interview between Fitzpiers and Mrs. Charmond, Grace was looking out of her sitting-room window, as if she had nothing to do, or think of, or care for. He stood still. "Ah, Grace," he said, regarding her fixedly.
Presently he looked across at Winterborne. "Would it startle you to hear," he said, as if he hardly had breath to utter the words, "that she who was to me what he was to you is dead also?" "Dead SHE dead?" exclaimed Grace. "Yes. Felice Charmond is where this young man is." "Never!" said Grace, vehemently.
What I come to ask you about is a more practical matter how to make the best of things as they are. I am thinking of a desperate step of calling on the woman Charmond. I am going to appeal to her, since Grace will not. 'Tis she who holds the balance in her hands not he.
But it was cold, nevertheless, on this March night, particularly for Grace, who with the sanguine prematureness of youth in matters of dress, had considered it spring-time, and hence was not so warmly clad as Mrs. Charmond, who still wore her winter fur.
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."
Charmond's, and the unseated charioteer that lady herself. To his inquiry if she were hurt she made some incoherent reply to the effect that she did not know. The damage in other respects was little or none: the phaeton was righted, Mrs. Charmond placed in it, and the reins given to the servant.
Charmond were presently left behind, and those into which she next plunged were divided from the latter by a bank, from whose top the hedge had long ago perished starved for want of sun. It was with some caution that Grace now walked, though she was quite free from any of the commonplace timidities of her ordinary pilgrimages to such spots.
The mysterious personage was so disguised that his own wife would hardly have known him. Felice Charmond was a practised hand at make-ups, as well she might be; and she had done her utmost in padding and painting Fitzpiers with the old materials of her art in the recesses of the lumber-room.
He was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic character though that was striking enough to a man who called himself the husband of the sufferer's friend and nurse but in its character as the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been Felice Charmond.
At last the bell rang: Mrs. Charmond could see him. She was not in her private sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard her coming from the front staircase, and she entered where he stood. At this time of the morning Mrs. Charmond looked her full age and more.
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