V

The sun had now grown fierce, and Felise, rising from the ground, walked along the hill, whose summit gradually declined. These hills of chalk are generally very steep in front, and laborious to ascend if attempted there; but at the rear they are much easier, and present no difficulty. In this they resemble human life, for the aspiring, whether in letters, politics, or commerce, find the utmost trouble in climbing up the precipitous frowning brow which defends the prize; but once on the top, sigh to observe that the back of the position, which was hidden from them, could have been easily ascended, and that after all they are only elevated in a trifling degree above their neighbours.

Immediately beneath the hill was a field of clover, and beyond that wheat; next came a large wood, extending round the hill to the left: a brightly-gleaming stream ran into and was lost in the shade of the wood. To the right were meadows, reaching as far as the eye could see through the crowded trees in the hedgerows. Among these Felise recognised her home, a mile or more distant, the roof and chimneys only visible above the foliage. The line of the sea appeared where another ridge of hill stooped, and rose again. It was five miles to the shore.

Turning to her left, Felise went over the ridge, and descended the slope, which was very gradual, about halfway, till she reached the shade of a solitary beech-tree growing there. She had been so full of her thoughts, and so insensible to her physical sensations, that the sun had heated her unpleasantly before she was aware of it, and the cool shadow of the beech was a relief. She leaned against its smooth trunk, and looked over a hollow valley, or plain, between several ridges.

They sloped down, one line behind the other, and a third across these; a fourth farther away, drawn along in those gentle outlines that look so easy to copy on paper, and are so difficult. The pencil can rarely hit the exact curve⁠—there is always a tendency to exaggerate; and some of the cleverest draughtsmen say the only method by which these illusive lines can be rendered is to gaze at them, and sketch without looking at the paper⁠—that is, to let the pencil obey the mandate of the eye without the intervening connection of the mind, yielding the faculties entirely to the curve.

This enclosed plain was grass-grown; a few hawthorns were scattered about it, and beneath where she stood three or four beeches grew in an irregular group. She was now facing in the opposite direction⁠—her present right was her former left. A rude track⁠—merely two ruts in the sward⁠—went over the hill on her right.

Just as she was beginning to feel refreshed in the coolness, her glance became sensible of a movement in the distance. Something had crossed over the third ridge, and descended out of sight into the hollow between it and the second. She did not look that way in time to see what it was, but supposed it to have been a shepherd.

While she leaned against the bole of the tree idling, she took out her penknife, a slight thing with a mother-of-pearl handle and a thin narrow blade. Why are ladies’ penknives so feebly made? Directly you begin to cut with one, the blade shakes and turns, or threatens to go right back, in spite of the spring.

Felise took the blade itself between her finger and thumb⁠—as the handle was useless she hafted it with her white fingers⁠—and began to cut out a slice of the bark of the beech.

This tree has a rind, smooth, and readily incised. It is not very thick, yet thick enough for a marked notch to be left if a strip be cut out. Felise forced the tender blade through the bark, and drew two parallel lines; then she loosened and tore out the thin strip between these, leaving a straight perpendicular stroke, or . The sap glistened in the groove.

She did it in mere idleness, quite thoughtlessly, and without intent. Now see what follows from one stroke, and how careful people should be before they begin anything. How can you tell where it may lead you?

She contemplated the glistening groove; and then, suddenly taking more interest in the work, began to draw two more parallel lines from the top of the first aslant to the right. This incision was somewhat shorter; it did not descend quite so far as the . It was connected with the first at the top. When the strip of bark was peeled out there were two glistening lines of sap, in shape something like half the conventional arrowhead on Government property⁠—

In a minute or two she began to add to this piece of work a further stroke, ascending from the descending one, also to the right, which, when peeled, left a strange Ogham-like character⁠—

So soon as she had done this she was startled at her own deed, and tried to rub it out with her soft hand, which was unlikely to produce much effect on the bark of a tree. Rub it as hard as she might, there was the incision, and she could not make the bark grow again. It is not so easy to undo what has once been done. The beech would not obliterate that mark in twenty years. The very thought increased her trepidation; her cheek grew warm⁠—everyone who passed would see it for twenty years.

The reflection that although they would see it they might not understand it, did not occur to her. What was so plain to her must be evident to others. Guilty people always imagine everyone is watching them⁠—that everyone detects their secret. Someone might be looking now. She looked up, and immediately drew close to the tree, hiding behind it.

While these labours had been proceeding, the figure which had appeared over the third ridge, to disappear immediately in the hollow, had come up again over the second ridge, gone down into the second hollow, and was at that moment, when she looked up, descending the first slope into the grassy valley at her feet. It was a man on horseback.

When he reached the level sward, he pushed his horse to full speed, and galloped at a great pace straight across the plain. He seemed to be making a beeline across, as if intending to ride up the opposite ascent.

Felise involuntarily grasped her penknife so tightly that the point pricked her finger. This drew her attention to the fact that a beech-tree six or eight inches in diameter is not shield enough to conceal a well-developed form; or else she did not care to hide now; or else she was curious to see which way he was going; or else⁠—a woman has so many reasons for everything she does it needs a volume to record them; but what she did was to step away from the tree, and in front of it, into full view.

Her lips were slightly parted; her form rose a little, for she had drawn herself up unconsciously to her full height. Her eyelids drooped, and a dreamy expression came into the beautiful grey of her eyes. The deep attention with which she gazed partly overcame the involuntary muscles, so that her heart beat slower, and her breath was scarcely drawn.

The horseman rode straight towards the hill, but at the foot turned to the right, and began to go round the valley. He had changed his mind, or thought perhaps that he should find no better place for a gallop than in this natural circus.

Instantly her breath came quicker, and her heart beat faster; the nerves had relieved the muscles. He was not going away yet.

In following the outline of the plain, he must pass close to her, though much lower, and just the other side of the clump of beeches. The curve brought him nearer and nearer, till she thought he must see her; yet he did not appear to do so. Thud, thud⁠—an occasional click as the hoofs struck a stray flint. He was looking straight at her! Surely he saw her? No; he rode on, and his back was turned as the curve of the grassy circus took him away.

Felise sighed, and then frowned; she could not understand it. She was in the full view of everyone who entered the valley; she might have been seen from the opposite side. Certainly their acquaintance was slight; still, he would hardly pass her like that.

He had not, in fact, seen her at all, intent on his gallop, on his horse, and especially upon his own thoughts. But to this circumstance the circular shape of the grassy circus contributed; for it is a curious fact that anyone standing on the side of a round cavity, or inside a round building, may be overlooked.

Suppose a circular room; stand close to the wall, and if a person glance casually in at the door, he will very likely fail to see anyone there. Though she was now full in the glowing morning sunlight, he did not see her; his mind was deeply engaged, and the retina is not so sensitive at such moments. He was riding fast to ride down his own thoughts.

As he came round to the spot where the rude track went over the hill to the right, Felise’s breath came slow again, lest he should turn and go along the wagon-road, which she knew would have led him home. He did not⁠—he came on; and for the second time passed her, unconscious of her presence. The nearer he came the higher grew the colour in her face and on her neck; as the strong horse took him away, so the colour faded. When the sunlight suddenly breaks forth from a cloud, how instantly the flowers bloom afresh!⁠—so the quick rosy flush lit up her delicate neck instantly, but it sank back slowly.

In passing the group of trees he was so close that the expression of his face was visible. His forehead was a little contracted with a frown; the line it caused was not deep, so that he appeared more hesitating than angry. He was undecided; he was seeking decision from the unhesitating stride of his horse.

Comparatively his face was small for his height; he was not all face, as we see some men, whose countenances seem to descend to the last button of their waistcoats. His head was in just proportion, the summit and finish of his shape, as a capital of a column. His hair had a shade like the gold of Felise’s, yet not in the least like hers, for his was deeper, browner, as if the sun had burnt it, as it had his cheek. Had it not been cropped so close, his hair would have curled; in the days of Charles II such hair would have been of priceless value to a cavalier, curled locks flowing to the shoulder.

In outline his countenance was somewhat oval, his features fine⁠—a straight nose and chin well marked, but not heavy. He had a short beard, and his head showed the more to advantage, because he had a good neck, not too thick. His eyes were blue, and framed in firmly-drawn eyebrows and long lashes. Though well built, he was slender rather than stout; his hands were brown, but not large.

The features indicated a temperament almost too sensitive, feelings too delicate for the roughness of life, which still has to be sustained by the rude plough and by labour in all weathers, as in the days of our most remote ancestors.

He rode without a saddle, only a bridle. The horse was a large bay, almost large enough for a weight-carrying hunter; a handsome creature whose flanks might have been polished like fine wood, they shone so. Round spots on the skin were less dark than the adjacent surface⁠—a dappling or graining which varied in hue as the animal turned, and the light was reflected at a different angle.

The third time he came round to the wagon-track he drew rein, as if about to change his course, and walked his horse. Felise impatiently moved her foot, and the dreamy expression in her eyes gave way to one of annoyance. But he went by the wagon-track, and continued along the circus, still at a walking-pace. This time, as he approached the beeches, he saw her.