III

She had seen him so little, and yet her passion had taken such hold of her. She knew that she had not come forth to see the sunrise and to bathe in the light of morning. It was to drink deep of the emotion which filled her; she must go out into the broad morning where alone was room enough for the heart to breathe. Filled and overflowing with love, yet such is the insatiable nature of passion that she, who thought of nothing else, went to try and think still more.

All this had come at once, in a few weeks⁠—all this concentration and burst of desiring; and with so little cause, for she had scarcely seen him. This proves that her heart had been full of love to its utmost capacity long before they had met; that incident was merely the outlet.

As she had roamed about the hills, and wandered in the woods, or by the shore, musing in deep enjoyment of the sunlight and the wind, love was coursing through each vein, filling every throb of her heart. It was this which gave such beauty to the flower, such colour to the sky, such pleasant coolness to the stream. She awoke to it in the morning as the swallows came to the eave by the window; they had been coursing long before through the air while she lay sleeping.

She threw open her window and breathed it⁠—the sweet wind from the meadows brought it. All day the sunlight poured it forth upon the green grass and rustling leaves; she moved in it as she moved in the sunbeams. By night it was with her. An inexpressible fullness of passion grew in her breast.

But could this be? Could anyone love without an object? Is it possible for the heart to become full and yet without an image? Not perhaps with a small nature, a narrow mind, a stunted being. With all great hearts and true women it is always the case; they love first in themselves, they love without knowing why, or whom⁠—it is their very life. If such a great and noble woman were enclosed in a prison from youth, and permitted no sight of man, still to the end of existence she would love. The divine flame lighted in her with life would burn on to the last moment.

Felise’s heart was lost before she saw him. She lost it amid the flowers of the meadow, the wind on the hill, by the rushing stream. She lost it in her study among her books, her poetry of old Greece⁠—songs of the “Violet Land”⁠—her “Odyssey” and dramas of Sophocles and Aeschylus; among the stars that swept by over the hill; by the surge that ran up and kissed her feet. The pointed grass stole it from her; the fresh leaves of spring demanded it; all things beautiful took it from her. Her heart was lost long since.

The streamlet in the woods is full before the dove alights to drink at it; the flower in the grass has expanded before the butterfly comes. A great passion does not leap into existence as violets sprang up beneath the white feet of Aphrodite. It has grown first. The grapes have ripened in the sun before they are plucked for wine.

Her vigour of life was very great; yet it was not that that sent her to the fields and woods, to the hilltop and the shore; nor the abounding physical vigour which forced her broad chest through the clear green sea; nor the strong muscle hidden in the rounded arm which drove her boat over the waves. The soul that inspired the effort was the love that was growing within her.

There were women in the country far larger of limb than she was; more bulky of arm and brawny of chest⁠—strong as reapers. They did not swim, though the sea was open to them; they did not row and spend whole days upon the water; they did not climb the hills and wander in the solitary valleys. They had the strength; they could have lifted a heavier weight than she could have done; they could have outworked her in manual tasks, yet they exhibited no energy. Such as were poor remained about their cottages; such as were better off stayed in their farmhouses. The little circumstances of daily life were enough for them, and they were satisfied with the petty gossip of the village and the market-town.

If there were any gala in the town they were eager enough then to don their finest and trudge, or ride as the case might be, thither, earliest to arrive and last to leave. Enterprise enough for that was in them. So totally were they without imagination that a flower-show, or a fête, or a fair roused them to the highest pitch of excitement. The band and the gay dresses, the noise and the crowd supplied what was naturally lacking in their minds. They had no colour within, and so sought it without.

They rushed to the fête or gala; for the rest, day after day, week after week, month after month, they were satisfied indoors with the petty things of the hour. The violets, the honeysuckle, the roses later on, were nothing to them; the sea nothing. It was within walking-distance, as near as the gala-field, but they never went to it.

Therefore it was not Felise’s physical vigour which made her seek the sun and the hills, not that which made her row and swim. Something else beside the abundant young life of the blood was there to give the impulse. The soul of her blood was the passion within.

This gave the vigour to her white limbs as she swam, supplying the force with which they thrust back the clear green sea; this pulled at the oar; this lifted her as she ran up the steep hillside. Her own heart coloured the flower she gathered, and gave a grace to the beech-trees beneath which she wandered. From herself came the brilliance of the sunlight, and the meaning in the books she read.

They did not go out into the fields, or wander in the woods, because they saw nothing there but fields and woods, nothing but grass and trees.

Felise carried with her a fresh colour for each flower, a thought for every tree, a feeling into the depths of the shadowy woods. The beauty of the grasses and the green wheat was in her; she brought the beauty to them. Slowly undulating the wave approached her boat: the grey wave poised itself a moment beside the boat, and immediately bowed itself beneath her. She saw down to the pale furrowed sand, and the seaweed in the shallow. In the clear water there was nothing of itself, but her heart put a feeling there⁠—just as she let her hand droop over into the sea.

With her soul grew her love; this purest of love, and yet strongest of passions. Her young limbs became stronger, her young chest broader, her shoulders and her back finer: a firmer pulse throbbed in her veins. So the soul enlarged as day after day of musing passed, and those long half-conscious reveries which are to the soul as sleep to the frame. She rejoiced in the morning and the sunrise, and felt the glowing beauty of the day; she saw the night and its stars, and knew the grandeur of the earth’s measured onward roll eastwards, the hexameter of heaven.

She saw these things because at her birth love was born with her; the flame was lit with her life, and must burn till the end.

There are but few men, one only they say in many, many years, in whom the fire of genius is clear from youth. These are born⁠—such cannot be educated up from common material. There are but few women (though more in proportion than such men) in whom the divine flame of unutterable love exists from the first moment of consciousness, still growing with their growth. The mark of love was stamped on Felise’s forehead.

Hence the sweetness of the morning to her; hence the joy of swimming in the clear green sea; the pleasure of rowing; of running on the hills; the beauty of the flowers. She brought to all a song⁠—the song of her heart. So that it is true to say that she loved before she had seen the object of her love. Who should have her would have a twofold Felise⁠—the outward beauty of the woman, the inward beauty of her soul.