The Picture said: “Here is a splendid opportunity to study me.” Martial studied it. He was so near that every change of expression was visible. He wondered why she had not heard him walking in the wood, but soon saw that she was absorbed in thought.
To know her thought was impossible—to trace its varying course easy. When she stood upright he understood that she was full of resolution. Presently she knelt at the water’s edge and brooded over her own reflection. She was then dreaming, but of what?
Next she went round to the boathouse, and I think if Martial had known what was going to happen he would have taken the opportunity, while her back was turned, to steal away through the wood. I think so. Some things, however, are great temptations; and a very, very great temptation renders a fall worthy, and ennobles the guilty. Still he had no idea but that she was going to row on the little lake.
Suddenly she appeared on the platform in her bathing-tunic, and lifted her arms while she readjusted the pearls.
He said to himself, “If I could only carve that attitude in marble!” The next instant she dived.
A good swimmer himself, he understood and appreciated the grace and strength with which she swam round the pool, especially when on her side. But when she came out of the water on the sward and sat down within three or four yards of the fringe of fern behind which he was concealed, he became so agitated he dreaded every moment he should forget himself and rustle the bushes beside him by some exclamatory movement, for such slight movements are exclamations.
The dew upon her knees, wet from the limpid water, glistened in the sunshine. Till this instant he had never met anything that answered to the poetry—the romance—in his heart. Full as he was of the deepest admiration of beauty, till this moment he had never seen it.
It was his own idea of loveliness—the idea within him—which he had applied to Rosa, and endowed her with what she had not, as the sunset colours a dull wall.
Before those beautiful knees he could have bowed his forehead in the grass, in the purest worship of beauty. They were sacred; a sense of reverence possessed him.
A sudden accession of fresh life filled him, as if he had inhaled some potent life-giving perfume—such as the ancient enchanters threw into the flames.
He had been crouching, now he knelt—the slight rustle he caused was that which Shaw heard. His breathing became so low it seemed to have ceased. It was like the first view of the sunlit sea, never again experienced, never forgotten; a moment of the most exalted life. This wondrous loveliness purified and freed his soul from the grossness of material existence.
Such is woman’s true place, to excite thus the deepest, the best, the most exalted of man’s emotions. At such a moment she is the visible representation of something higher than logical expression can be found for. To use the words in another sense, she is the tangible expression of a “truth higher than the truth of scientific reasoning.”
There never lived anyone more capable of appreciating beauty than Martial; he was almost too sensitive, because the very violence of his emotion prevented him from feeling the pleasure he might have done. It was a passion more than a pleasure.
Fortunate boy to have seen such beauty! Fortunate Paris before whom the three goddesses came; such a moment was worth a thousand years.
After she had gone with Shaw, Martial remained in the fern for some time, basking in the memory of her.
The day that followed he felt exhilarated, as if he were drinking champagne. He had a secret spring of delight within; he had only to recall what he had seen.
He said to himself after a time: “I have seen her, and I do not love her. My follies are over. Her beauty has only caused an aesthetic admiration. She is only a picture to me, and I have convinced myself that I can look safely upon the picture.”
How joyful this was! (The cruelty to Rosa was quite forgotten.) He should never again do anything foolish, never more commit extravagances or cultivate moral sentiment. He was quite superior to it. Never before had he known such freedom; all the casuistry he had imbibed from books of love had disappeared. The proof of it could be observed in this circumstance. It was laid down in all of them that if you looked upon unparalleled beauty you must love it; but he had looked—he had been, and still was, in a trance of admiration—yet he did not love. On the contrary, the sight had given him liberty—perfect freedom of the heart.
He was happier than he had been for two years, because his self-contentment had returned. He had recovered his youth.
He could use every opportunity of studying the picture. But he would not speak to her, nor let her come to an interview with him. He would not be wearied with glances—such follies were at an end. She should be kept at a distance whence, unruffled by frivolity, he could admire her calmly as a work of art.
XV
“You will not have a rise,” said Shaw. “ ’Tis too bright. Let me come and tickle them; the water’s low.” She would have pulled off her shoes and stockings and tickled the trout under the stones in high delight if Felise had permitted. They were standing in the porch, Felise with her fly-rod; Shaw just touching her here and there to complete her toilet, as an artist adds little touches daintily after the picture is finished. Felise had lately been singularly particular about her dress when she went trout-fishing. There was something of a set, preoccupied expression on her face.
On the contrary,
