“I have been watching you riding,” she said. “I wish I could ride like that without stirrups.” Implied flattery, Felise.
“It is very easy.”
“But you went very fast; and such a big horse, too.”
“So much the easier; the motion is so much more pleasant than with a small horse.”
“Let me stroke him,” she said.
Together they walked a few steps down the slope; the bay had quietly set himself to feed on the sweet sward. She stroked him, and admired him. There was an emphasis in her manner as if she would rather have stroked certain brown-gold locks near her. She asked him twenty questions about his horse Ruy.
He answered all, but merely answered them, without any enthusiasm or desire to continue the conversation. Twice he said time was going on, and touched his watch-chain, but did not look at his watch for courtesy’s sake.
Felise glanced hastily round to find some subject to talk of. The trees—what trees were they? She knew perfectly well.
“Beeches,” he said; “they grow on a chalky soil.”
“Where does that road lead to?” pointing to the wagon-track.
“To Welcombe.”
As if she had not followed it twenty times, till she could look down upon his house. Anything to make him stay, to make him speak, that she might see him, and hear his voice.
“You have not called for a very long time.”
As if he was on visiting terms. He had called once on mere formal business.
“How is Mr. Goring?” he was obliged to ask.
Then followed three or four sentences—three or four moments more—about her uncle’s health, and his fondness for planting trees.
“Why does he not look at me?” she thought. “Can I not make him look at me?” Then aloud, sharply: “Mr. Barnard!”
He could not help but look, at the sound of his name. He saw a face full of wistful meaning upturned to him. Her golden hair had strayed a little on her forehead, three or four glistening threads wandered over it, asking some loving hand to smooth them back. The white brow without a stain, a mark, a line; no kiss there but must be purified by the touch; it was an altar which could not be tainted—which would turn taint to purity. Large grey eyes that seemed to see him only—to whom the whole world, the hills round them, the sky over, was not—eyes that drew his towards them, and held his vision in defiance of his will. If once you look over the side of a boat into the clear sea, you must continue looking—the depth fascinates the mind. Some depth in her rapt gaze fascinated him.
Her eyebrows arched—not too much arched—the curve of the cheek, roseate, almost but not quite smiling, carried his thought downwards to her breathing lips. Her lips were apart, rich, dewy, curved; they kissed him by their expression, if not in deed. In that instant his heart throbbed violently; the beat rose to thrice its usual rate.
The first moment of awaking to a happy morning, the daylight that means a joyful event; the first view of the sea in youth, when the blue expanse brings tears to the eyes—in these there is some parallel to the sudden, the extreme, and the delicious feeling that shot through him. To reach the ideal of human happiness it is necessary to be for the moment unconscious of all, except the cause. For that moment he had no consciousness except of her, such was the power of her passion glowing in her face.
Even Felise, eager to retain him with her, and unhesitatingly employing every means, could not maintain that gaze. Unabashed and bold with love, she was too true, too wholly his, to descend to any art. Her gaze, passionate as it was, was natural and unstudied; therefore it could not continue. Her eyes drooped, and he was released.
Immediately, as if stung to a sense of his honour, he placed his hands on the horse, sprang up, and seated himself. “I—I have much to do,” he said, embarrassed to the last degree, and holding out his hand.
She would not see it. She took the bridle, and stroked Ruy’s neck, placing her cheek almost against the glossy skin. Obeying the pressure of his knee, Ruy began to move slowly. She walked beside him, holding the bridle; but Ruy’s long stride soon threatened to leave her behind. For very shame, he could not but stay. At a touch Ruy halted. She looked up at him; he carefully avoided her glance. The horse, growing restless, began to move again; again, for courtesy’s sake, he was compelled to check him. Not a word had been spoken while this show was proceeding.
Barnard’s face grew hot with impatience, or embarrassment, or a sense that he was doing wrong in some manner not at the moment apparent. Sideways, she saw his glowing cheek. It only inflamed her heart the more; the bright colour, like the scarlet tints in a picture, lit up his face. Next he controlled himself, and forced his features and attitude to an impassive indifference. He would sit like a statue till it pleased her to let him go. Ruy pulled hard to get his neck free that he might feed again.
She stooped and gathered him some grass and gave it to him. Twice she fed him. Barnard remained silent and impassive. Still not a word between them. The third time she gathered a handful of grass, as she rose her shoulder brushed his knee. She stood there, and did not move. Her warm shoulder just touched him, no more; her golden hair was very near. She drew over a tuft of Ruy’s mane, and began to deftly plait it. Barnard’s face, in defiance of himself, flushed scarlet; his very ears burned. He stole half a glance sideways; how lovely her roseate cheek, the threads of her golden hair, against the bay’s neck! Ruy was turning his nostrils round to touch
