XIV

Swayed first one way and then the other, Barnard rose one morning extremely early, bridled Ruy, and started for the hills, resolved to ride to and fro till he had made up his mind, and then to abide by the decision he came to.

Destiny arranged that that very morning Felise, with her heart full of love for him, went up on the hill to see the sun rise.

Now, when Barnard at last saw her, he naturally rode in that direction. As he approached he recollected the unfortunate circumstances in which he was placed, and half turned away. Something, however, caused him to again turn, and speak to her. Yet he could not look at her⁠—he felt like a felon. He tried to leave her⁠—his admiration of her beauty compelled him to stay; yet all the while bitterly conscious of the cruelty to Rosa. With an effort he was conquering the charm, when he met her gaze so full of wistful meaning, charged with passion. Proof as he was to love, his heart beat quick and heavily; he felt dizzy for the moment.

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 sing; the thrush dared not enter the fern to feed her young, which had left the nest; and the dove, though he alighted in the tree, did not coo.

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.