The Dewy Morn

through all these experiences⁠—old birds and chaff, you have heard. Very beautiful no doubt, but still a woman. Very interesting indeed. I know more than you think. What a lovely shoulder she has beneath that dress⁠—I shall never forget it. You don’t know what a view I had when you were bathing. And her hair reaches down to her knee, very nearly; thick, too, wavy and fine. But that is nothing to her shape and her knee⁠—there, she has just moved her knee. I can see it quite plainly through the dress as I saw it then, white and dewy from the water. She makes believe to listen to everything I say⁠—just as if she cared, just as if she liked what I say about things. What a stupid I am to talk to her of anything beside a bonnet! I can feel she keeps looking at me; very likely she wants to try another glance on me⁠—long and passionate. No, no, nothing of the kind; I won’t permit you. I will keep my eyes on the grass or the trees as firm as possible. In the sonnets there is a line⁠—pooh! I will not remember such folly. I wish she would move a little farther away. I can feel her sitting near me. I don’t like this⁠—when’s Godwin coming? I must get out of it. Her shoulder and her neck, and her white knee⁠—her dress is quite transparent to me. I never could have thought there was anyone so lovely in the world. Now her hand⁠—there it is drooping; it is not only white, it is lit up within with some delicious light⁠—some clearness, as if it was the dawn under the skin. There, she has raised her hand; she rests her head against it a moment. Now see, it is not transparent like that of anyone very ill; it is plump, but it is alight, aglow⁠—the dawn is inside it. She is Greek, and yet she is not; she is English-Greek; the mingling of the styles of the antique and the English produces the greatest beauty. She feels delicious to sit by; something seems to influence me; it is extraordinarily pleasant sitting by her. There is something dreamy in it, as if she were Cytherea. Here, what am I at! Romancing. She’s only a woman. However, I need not worry myself about occasional lapses. I am hardened enough, in all conscience. This sort of creature is very well as a Picture; you don’t want to get excited over it. She looked straight at me then. No, I am not going to look at you⁠—much too cold for that. Must say something, I suppose. Now I have sat by her once, I could do so every day without the least danger. There, the sunlight has touched her hair⁠—”

Aloud he said: “The sun is still very warm, although sinking.”

“The warm weather is welcome to you, I suppose; it is good for your wheat, is it not?” she replied.

“Yes, it is; still it is not much use. It is too late⁠—or seems so. Any weather is good enough for a despised farmer.”

“I do not see why they should be despised.”

“I am weary of it,” said Martial, suddenly throwing off his air of studied indifference. “We go on⁠—at least I do⁠—from hand to mouth, year after year; it is a most unpleasant position. We are permitted to exist⁠—on charity. As a great favour, out of his gracious benevolence our landlord presents us with ten percent⁠—as a present, not as our right. I think I shall get out of it. I am very much inclined to sell off and go to the States⁠—”

“The States!” repeated Felise in a low voice, shocked and alarmed.

“Yes, I think so. This system of touch-the-hat is too much for me. Certainly the farmers are very much to blame; it is perfectly sickening to see their servility, all praising and be-lauding and applauding the very men they hate. There is nothing sturdy or independent about the British farmer of our day⁠—truckling to the landlord, and truckling to the steward, and truckling to the solicitor, and truckling to the parson; it is most contemptible. If they had had the courage to say what they thought, and if they had had the common sense to combine together, they could have done whatever they chose. But as for combination, they are incapable of it. Now it is too late.

“Why too late?”

“The labourers⁠—your old cottager, for instance⁠—are going to have votes, and in future the country, I mean the rural districts, will be in their hands. The farmers as a governing class will disappear.”

“Then old Abner will be able to stay in his cottage,” said Felise, naturally jumping to a conclusion.

“Events will not move quick enough to serve him, I fear,” said Martial. “His wrong is but one among so many. What rouses my indignation is the complacent assertion that there is really nothing wrong. So much philanthropy, and so many reforms in workhouses and prisons, and in the laws, they say, have removed everything cruel and harsh, while I believe it is just the reverse; I believe there is just as much cruelty and harshness in the workhouses and prisons and infirmaries⁠—in the whole system⁠—as ever there was. Really, I do think that the more philanthropy is talked about, and especially scientific philanthropy, the more individual suffering there is. It is all so vague. They give thousands to hospitals⁠—not a penny to a poor man. Cornleigh Cornleigh would subscribe a hundred pounds to a new hospital, but he would not permit your aged cottager to stay in his home⁠—nothing of the sort; drive him to the workhouse. There is nothing so cold-hearted as philanthropy.”

“You mean it is all given to the buildings, and not to the sufferers.”

“That is it; but I am afraid the sun is too warm for you.” The sunset-glow now came full upon Felise’s face.

“No, not at all. Besides, I have my sunshade.”

She had her sunshade, indeed, and had