“Welcome to my study,” said the faun. “Or, should this boulder serve as my pulpit? And shall these leaves, ablaze in the sunlight, serve as our stained-glass window? Have you come to hear a monologue or a sermon?” He turned a page in his book, struck an affected attitude and declaimed:
Down Pindus steep Pineus falls
And swift and clear through hill and dale
It flows, and by Larissa’s walls—
Mary gasped in surprise—again. The faun had turned into a man—a real man—a completely naked man, completely at ease with himself. She was more amused than affronted, but propriety demanded that she look away, so she did.
“Pray excuse me, sir, for disturbing your solitude.”
“Oh. I say. I did not intend to discompose you, madam. Well, actually, to tell the truth, I delight in discomposing people. Pray, wait just one moment.” And the young man, who was clearly an Englishman and a gentleman, by his speech and accent, disappeared behind his boulder and emerged at ground level a brief moment later, wearing a loose-fitting lawn shirt and some wide-legged trousers. He was still barefoot.
“How do you do?” said the young man, advancing upon Mary. “What a fine animal you have got there. Is she yours or is she from the local stables? Are you newly arrived at Bagni di Lucca? I only came this morning myself. You are English, I presume. Are you—” and he broke off and stared at Mary with some perplexity.
“Unless I am very much mistaken, madam, we have met before, have we not?” The man ran his hand through his unruly hair as he ransacked his memory. “Did we dine together at the Leigh Hunts, perhaps? Or are you acquainted with Mrs. Boinville?”
Mary was also struck by the idea that this strange man looked familiar to her.
“No, sir, I do not know those persons. And yet, I do think we have met before. But surely, we should be able to recollect the occasion.”
“Yes!” The young man smiled in a most engaging fashion. “At least, I am certain I could never forget meeting you. Beauty such as yours is not to be forgotten. Perhaps I saw you in a painting by Botticelli.”
“That is just what I was thinking,” exclaimed Mary. “I thought at first you were a faun out of a painting.”
At this, the man threw back his head and laughed—loudly, immoderately. His wild, high-pitched glee instantly recalled to Mary the circumstances of their first meeting.
“You—you are the hermit of Marlow!”
Now it was the young man’s turn to be briefly discomposed.
“I am! That is to say, I once was—but not a handful of people, I think, know that particular pen name. How came you—-” Sudden recollection dawned upon his face. “Ahhh! You are the lady I met at Gray’s Inn. You asked me to be your husband’s amanuensis! Or rather—” with a quicksilver change of mood, he became decidedly less friendly. “You asked me to re-write your husband’s sermons, make them more evangelical, and I refused you.”
“You certainly did refuse me,” said Mary, likewise retreating to a chillier tone. “You fell upon the floor, actually fell upon the floor, laughing me to scorn.”
“I did, too,” said the man, not at all abashed by her reproof. “But, what a preposterous notion, that I—of all people—should write Christian sermons!” He spat out the word “Christian” with particular loathing. “Christianity, or rather, the false creed that profanes the name of one of the wisest, gentlest, noblest beings to walk upon this earth. I—to help keep the labouring classes in superstition and ignorance! Well, madam, if it is any consolation to you, there have been moments since that day when I had ample reason to wish for the handsome fee you offered me.”
“As I recall, you said that no amount of money would induce you to help propagate lies, superstition and idolatry.”
“Oh, no doubt I said that, and much more,” the man said, suddenly reassuming his original cheerfulness. “So, did you find another writer?”
Ordinarily, Mary would have answered that her affairs were no business of his, especially since he had declined her generous offer so peremptorily, but the setting and the devil-may-care attitude of her companion led her to reply, “No, I abandoned the scheme. At least for now.”
“I see. Well, I might entertain myself by arguing you back into it, just to test my powers of persuasion,” answered the man. “How extraordinary it is, that we should happen to meet again! I am no mathematician, but this cannot be mere chance. What can this signify?”
He took a step closer and peered at her in a near-sighted way, and although they were alone in the woods, Mary did not feel in the least alarmed. He was not intimidating, even though she could not have vouched for his complete sanity; he seemed as harmless as a child. He was tall but slight of build. His features were graceful, almost feminine; his brow was clear and open, his lips were full and pink and he had the downy complexion of a school boy. In London, she had been surprised at his youthful appearance, given his undeniable abilities with his pen. But now, even though he still possessed that same high-pitched voice that she recalled, and his tall, lithe form moved with the graceful ease of a youth, she saw the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, and there were a few streaks of grey in his hair.
He silently studied her, just as she studied him, unhurriedly, taking in her slender figure, her lively dark eye, and her clear brown complexion. Finally he stepped back, and with a graceful gesture, indicated a large, flat-topped, smooth, boulder under the dappled shade of the chestnut trees, on which they could both sit.
