II

The lane became more rugged; then there was a sudden dip, and in the hollow of the dip a streamlet ran across. A blackbird had been splashing in the water; and, as she came over the slope, rose up loudly calling. He perched on the hedge, looked towards her impudently from his dark eyes, half a mind to defy her, so bold was he in his beauty of blackest black and tawny bill. But as she stepped nearer he went off, again loudly calling and startling every bird in the field.

The streamlet was so shallow the small flints were only half submerged, and the water was but a few inches wide. The sand which the blackbird had disturbed floated quickly away, leaving it perfectly pure. Felise stooped, dipped her fingers, and watched the drops fall sparkling from them. She felt the water; she liked to touch all things⁠—the sunlight shone the brighter on her hand because it was wet.

Beyond the streamlet the lane rose rapidly, rugged and narrow; the hedges ceased, and only a hawthorn-bush here and there appeared on the banks. Presently it became a deep white groove, worn in chalk.

Felise stepped quickly now, and in a few minutes reached the foot of the hill, where the lane left the straight line, and went up the Downs aslant, so that wagons might be drawn up, which they could not have been had the track been straight.

The moment Felise’s foot touched the sward, she began to run up the hill, making direct for the ridge, like a hare, or a bee bent for the thyme above. Her arched insteps, like springs, threw her forwards; her sinews strung and strong, lifted her easily. Her weight did not press the turf⁠—it was for the time suspended between her swift bounds. Rejoicing, her deep chest opened, the pliant ribs, like opening fingers, made room for cubic feet of purest atmosphere. The air inhaled lifted her; she was lighter and more swift.

Forced into the blood, the strong hill air intoxicated her. She forgot all; she saw nothing⁠—neither the sun, the sky, nor the slope itself; her entire being was occupied in putting forth her strength. Up⁠—from thyme-bunch to thyme-bunch; past grey flat flints; past rusty ironstone fragments; past the parallel paths, a few inches wide, which streaked the hill⁠—up, straight for the summit!

A lark, startled, fled, but immediately began to soar and sing. The landscape widened beneath; there were woods and bright fields. She did not see the fields, or woods, or hear the lark; nor notice the flints which, like lesser milestones, marked her run. Her limbs grew stronger, her bounds more powerful, as her breath was drawn in long, deep inspirations. The labour increased her strength; her appetite for the work grew as she went. She ran and drank the wind to have more of herself⁠—to have the fullness of her own existence. The great heart within her throbbed and bore her, replying to her spirit.

More flints, more thyme⁠—a stonechat flitted away⁠—longer grass, more slippery, the slope steeper, still⁠—up!

Yet the strong limbs could not bound quite so far; the feet fell as swiftly, but the space covered was not so wide. There was effort now.

Brave as may be the heart of woman, yet the high hills must try it. So great was the rush of the aerated blood, it seemed to threaten to suffocate her. The supple knees could not straighten themselves; they remained slightly bent. The pliant ribs, opened to their widest, seemed forced outwards by an expansive power which must break them to get free. Her head was thrown back: she did not look now at the ridge; she looked up at the sky. Surely the summit must be near?

She would have dropped rather than give up; she would have dropped like a hunted animal before she would have yielded.

The time when she knew she must fall was numbered now but by seconds. The strong air which at first gave such a sense of vigour was now too strong; it began to take away her breath. She did not feel her limbs; they moved mechanically, though still quickly. She saw nothing but the sky. Five seconds more, and down she must go: not even that great heart could bear more.

But she was nearer than she knew. Suddenly the slope became less steep, where the summit seemed planed away; her feet went along instead of having to be lifted. She looked and saw the thorn-bush on the ridge before her. She stopped by the bush; she had done it⁠—the hill was conquered.

She could not stand quite still; she walked slowly forwards⁠—the sudden relief to her panting chest was unbearable if she stood. Pant, pant; throb, throb! But her heart sang in its throbs; her eyes gleamed with delight. She walked slowly in a circle, and came back to the old thorn-bush. She could stand now. She looked towards the horizon, blue where it met the descending dome of the sky.

First her gaze went straight out to the farthest, where earth appeared immaterial like the sky; after that it travelled back to her, over woods, the gleam of water, more woods, which were less dense, and had glades of green meadows between them; then rested for awhile on a red roof among sycamores and elms⁠—home⁠—then came nearer. And now she looked down having previously looked out⁠—down on the lane, and on the cornfields; thatched roofs yonder on the left, and early smoke rising; an idle windmill; a church-tower, round which black specks of daws were wheeling; and cornfields, brightly green. Her heart sang within her. She triumphed; she was full of her own life.

In all that vast plain there was not a woman that could have done it, and not two men.

There was nothing large, gigantic, or Amazonian about her; it was the perfection of her physical nature, not size or training. Her natural body had been further perfected by a purely natural life. The wind, the sun, the fields, the hills⁠—freedom, and the spirit which dwells among these, had made her a natural woman; such a woman as Earth meant to live upon her surface, and as Earth intended in the first origin of things: beauty and strength⁠—strength and beauty.

What a latent power of love was there in that richness of blood, that depth of chest, that greatness of heart! Pure love, pure as the springwater that comes from the hills, was there ready to be poured forth⁠—always full, always pouring, always the same and always pure.

Felise walked along the summit of the hill till she reached the place on the other side where it sloped downwards. There the dew had fully dried⁠—it was the eastern slope, and so received the full rays of the sun from his earliest rising. In summer he rises with his full rays, and steps at once in all his fiery strength up over the eastern horizon. The turf was perfectly dry; she sat down, facing eastwards.

Now, for the first time, she heard the larks singing; she had been too full of her own thoughts and efforts to listen before.