He took out his own knife, and cut the stroke necessary to complete the letter.
Hurrying to Ruy, who was feeding, he got up, and rode round the hill, and into the lane. Though so far behind at starting, his speed was thrice hers; he thought he could easily overtake her. But she had progressed farther than he anticipated, and he found himself near her home without seeing anything of her. Then he asked himself what should he do if he did overtake her? Could he ride up—could he speak to her? What could he say?
At this moment when Barnard let his horse walk, Felise was scarcely a hundred yards in front, but concealed by a turn of the lane.
“M,” he said to himself, “might stand for many other names—for Martin, for Mark; perhaps, after all, it was only a freak—an accidental resemblance to an M, and no letter was intended.”
But the look—the look which had held him; the depth of those beautiful eyes; the wistful expression of the face—he saw it before him as he saw it at the moment. Should he ever forget it?—he felt that it would never fade. As he thought of it, he looked down, and saw the plaited piece of mane. He cut it off, and put it in his pocketbook.
But in the pocketbook there were dates, and entries referring to—no matter; he took the plait from the pocketbook, and placed it with his watch.
His conduct? To forget past vows; to follow another woman; to let his mind dwell upon this new face—could anything be more despicable?
He turned Ruy with some violence, and walked him back up the lane. But why should he be better than others? Why set up to be so ultra-honourable? Was he not free in the eyes of the world?
As he pondered, still with her face before him, he saw a handkerchief, whits and delicate of texture, almost under Ruy’s hoofs; for the horse, left to himself, had chosen to walk on the sward near the hedge. Martial got down, and picked up the handkerchief. There were the initials F. G. in the corner. It exhaled a slight perfume, the sweet delicate odour of the beautiful woman to whom it belonged, and he kissed it. With this he might ride up to her house even; it would be an excuse.
No; he could not—he must not. He remounted, and pursued his way along the lane, round the hill, back to the solitary beech with the glistening letter cut in its bark.
He reproved himself for permitting himself even to think of her; so he spoke aloud, as it were, mentally. At the same moment he was inquiring. Did that look mean anything? If so, was it real—was it true? Or was she heartless, and merely using a lovely face to play upon him? Surely she was too beautiful; and yet—why should she select him for such a glance? Their acquaintance was but trivial, and Barnard, to do him justice, was without conceit. She could not mean it; and yet, and yet!
And so the summer day wore on. To one it was too long, because she did not know how long it would be before she saw him again; the other took no heed of the glorious sunlight, because a face floated before him.
VIII
Some ten or twelve days afterwards Felise started to bathe, telling Shaw to follow in a quarter of an hour with her towels. It was about eleven, and all the dew long since dry; the garden-path was hedged on either side with peonies, whose large flowers hung heavily. Open the folio-petals like the leaves of a book, and you will find the imperial purple of the heavens at sunset deep within the volume.
Beyond the peonies her skirt rustled on grass, grown high under apple-trees, and the shade of the apple-boughs crossed her shoulder as she walked. She saw her uncle, Mr. Goring, at a distance, busy at his bees. A swarm hung from an apple-bough, and, clad in his net, he was charming them into a hive. Gardening and beekeeping, planting trees, and all similar pleasure-work, is of no interest unless you do it yourself. He did everything himself, and knew every shoot, because he had himself pruned the branch.
Felise went on along a filbert-walk—Goring’s own planting—then out by a yew-hedge higher than her head, and past the sundial. On the northern side of the sundial, under a sycamore, with the tall yew-hedge in the rear, a seat was placed; it was Felise’s favourite resort, because there was a view of the distant hills, and in the afternoon of the sunset, from this place. He had planted the grounds so thickly with trees that this was almost the only spot where a view could be obtained.
Next she walked beside a hawthorn-hedge. Goring had made a gravel walk parallel with the hedge, which led through the meadow to a copse at hand. There was a narrow valley between two slopes covered with wood; a copse had always been there, but Goring planted the summit each side with beech, and dotted American scarlet oaks about, besides cutting green walks among the ash, where, on turning a corner, you came unexpectedly on a bed of flowers or strawberries.
So soon as she reached the copse and had put her hand on the wicket-gate she heard the rush of falling waters. For some reason it was not audible till the wicket was reached, thence at every step in the wood it increased in volume of sound. A little stream from the chalk hill ran through the wood; years and years ago it had been banked up, and a pool made, in which there were trout. The pool was large enough for a boathouse; by the boathouse was a special compartment constructed for Felise, for bathing purposes.
Here she had learnt to swim; Goring taught her.
