Recovering himself, he remounted his horse, but Felise held the bridle and plaited a lock of Ruy’s mane. His face grew hot with shame and a feeling he could not understand. At last a passing horse neighed, Ruy answered and moved, and Martial went without a word, for in fact, such was the conflux of his feelings, he could not speak.
When he had ridden a mile or two, and was descending towards his own house, suddenly he began to ridicule himself. Why should he not speak to her? Why should he be so sentimental about Rosa? Why should he not have enjoyed the moment? Was he to be bound down more than other men? What other man with such a face before him would have rudely parted without a word?
Round he turned and galloped back after Felise; but, just as he was on the point of overtaking her, his mood again changed, and he rode back.
On finding Felise’s handkerchief, once more her beauty became the uppermost thought; he took it with him, and placed the lock of plaited mane in his pocket—not in his pocketbook, which contained entries of the dates—the epochs of his courtship of Rosa, the first kiss, the whispered “Yes.”
He kept the handkerchief for a few days. That passionate glance dwelt in his memory; every time he thought of it, his heart quickened its pace involuntarily. Barnard had had experience enough to feel that such a look must have a meaning. Yet it could not be, she could not care for him; she had hardly seen him, and with all his faults, Barnard was not so conceited as to suppose that a woman could fall in love with him at first sight.
Was she then a coquette? Never. Such a face could not be that of a flirt. A woman with a face as lovely as the Madonna might, by stress of circumstance, if her heart was deeply engaged, be drawn to folly—if too great love be folly.
But she could not coquet; she could not feign; whatever she was, she must be true. What, then, could she mean? In studying this problem he found himself forgetting the cruelty to Rosa.
All at once he began to abuse himself. What did it matter to him what she meant? he did not feel the least interest in her, except as something to look at? These sentimental questions belonged to that school of love whose tenets he had forsworn. How ever could he be so foolish as to occupy himself again with such follies?
This tendency must be crushed in the beginning. Nothing should induce him to commit such follies, and to submit to such a loss of independence a second time.
So he walked down to the sea, hurled the handkerchief and the lock of Ruy’s mane into the waves, and afterwards cut out the letter M from the beech, getting rid of every material trace of his interview with Felise.
According to some philosophers, human beings should be strictly kept from the view of anything lovely or desirable, in order that they may enjoy peace of mind and devote their lives to duty. It is certainly a fact that if we once see an interesting picture we like to see it again; and if we can, we purchase it, and hang it on our walls to look at day by day.
Martial’s picture being in his mind, could not be hurled into the sea like the handkerchief wrapped round a pebble. Felise’s face, that passionate gaze, haunted him, and argued with him.
The Picture said: “You can look at me without the least harm to yourself. Of course you are quite indifferent now, your heart is dead—it is an extinct volcano. Such ashes as remain are in no danger of ignition. At your time of life, after your experiences, you are superior to that sort of thing. You are able to sit by the fire without burning yourself. As a man, it is your right to enjoy some pleasure in the world. But there, no man would hesitate a moment—you are a coward; you are afraid your fresh resolutions would break down; you cannot trust yourself; you are still full of your original extravagant sentiment.”
“It is false,” said Martial. “I can gaze at you without an emotion.”
“Then do so,” said the Picture, “and prove yourself what you pretend to be.”
“I defy you,” said Barnard; and accordingly, saddling Ruy, away he rode and passed by Mr. Goring’s house, thinking to see Felise in the garden. He repeated this several times, but it so chanced that Felise was not to be seen. Barnard observed that the garden in front by the road was merely a lawn; possibly she would be more frequently in the flower-garden at the rear, or fishing, or boating, at the trout-pond, of whose existence he was aware, having often followed the course of the stream.
For certain reasons, which will appear presently, Barnard had now to make his journeys on foot. One evening he came over, entered the copse (there was no keeper), and, remaining well hidden in the brushwood, succeeded in getting a distant view of Felise.
She was sitting by the sundial, where she could see the sunset.
Next morning Martial made another attempt, and as he was coming through the copse, very nearly stepped out right in front of her, as she sat on the beam of the hatch by the pool.
He crouched down behind the fringe of ferns. Alarmed at his presence the blackbird ceased to
