Her hands were full of clover-blossoms; she threw them away and gathered the large daisies; she scattered the daisies and took buttercups and blue veronica; she laughed and whistled—quite a real whistle—she caught her foot and tumbled, and shouted. The spaniel charged her as she lay extended, charged over her and rolled her down again. Together they romped, utterly unaware of the Terror that was approaching them with swift strides.
Her long golden hair, one mass of ringlets, was spread about upon the grass, as she lay on her back—the spaniel had his heavy paws on her chest—one knee was raised among the golden buttercups, and the sun shone on its exquisite whiteness. She was panting and laughing, almost unable to move from the weight of the spaniel and her own exhaustion.
The Terror was very near—the Terror could easily have captured her; but now a singular incident occurred.
At a distance of ten short paces Robert Godwin stopped, looked fixedly, suddenly turned on his heel, and returned the way he had come without a word.
Almost directly his back was turned the spaniel saw him, and began to bark; and the girl sat up and began instinctively to arrange her frock, and get her hair in order. But Robert Godwin did not look back.
The child was Felise Goring, then but recently arrived at her uncle’s upon the loss of her father, whom she could not regret because she had never known him—he had been in India so long. She remembered the grass—just remembered it—about the house she had lived in when she first began to walk. She came to it again from the streets and confinement of a London suburb.
Imagine the child’s delight—the fields to roam in—liberty—the great dog; all the happy sunny freedom children enjoy in the country. No matter how kind their parents may be, no matter how fortunate their circumstances, the children in cities never know the joyousness of the country.
The grass to walk on; the flowers to gather; the horses to watch; the new milk; the delicious butter; the brook to ramble by; the pond to fish in; the hay to throw about; the very ladders to climb; and the thick hedges to get in as if they were woods. No gold can purchase these things in cities. They are to be pitied whose youth has been spent in streets, though they may succeed to the countinghouse where millions are made.
All of you with little children, and who have no need to count expense, or even if you have such need, take them somehow into the country among green grass and yellow wheat—among trees—by hills and streams, if you wish their highest education, that of the heart and the soul, to be completed.
Therein shall they find a Secret—a knowledge not to be written, not to be found in books. They shall know the sun and the wind, the running water, and the breast of the broad earth. Under the green spray, among the hazel boughs where the nightingale sings, they shall find a Secret, a feeling, a sense that fills the heart with an emotion never to be forgotten. They will forget their books—they will never forget the grassy fields.
If you wish your children to think deep things—to know the holiest emotions, take them to the woods and hills, and give them the freedom of the meadows.
It is of no use to palter with your conscience and say, “They have everything; they have expensive toys, storybooks without end; we never go anywhere without bringing them home something to amuse them; they have been to the seaside, and actually to Paris; it is absurd, they cannot want anything more.”
But they do want something more, without which all this expensive spoiling is quite thrown away. They want the unconscious teaching of the country, and without that they will never know the truths of this life. They need to feel—unconsciously—the influence of the air that blows, sun-sweetened, over fragrant hay; to feel the influence of deep shady woods, mile-deep in boughs—the stream—the high hills; they need to revel in long grass. Put away their books, and give them the freedom of the meadows. Do it at any cost or trouble to yourselves, if you wish them to become great men and noble women.
Indulgent to all, Mr. Goring was necessarily yet more indulgent to this great beautiful girl suddenly thrown on his hands. For she was beautiful already, although with that unshapen, uncertain irregularity which promises better in childhood than regularity. If a girls features are regular as a child, if already lovely, it is rare for her to be a beautiful woman. Neither the face nor the form must be finished too soon.
Felise’s face suggested, her form already hinted at, loveliness to come when the bold first strokes of Nature were filled in.
To recognise such strokes of Nature in their inception, and to observe their relation to each other and to the general shape, is a pleasure of the most exquisite kind. If the growth and unfolding of a flower be beautiful, how much more so the growth of a woman!
Robert Godwin’s thought from that hour never varied from the child whom he had intended to have driven with harsh reviling from the meadow. I do not say that he loved her from the moment he saw her; he had no imagination. His heart was not prepared with fancy and ready to love; but his thought dwelt upon her, and love steadily grew within him.
So intensely concentrated a nature could not love by halves—could not admire, or sigh, and pass
