VI

She knew he did, although no alteration was perceptible in his manner. Watching him so narrowly, she felt that he had seen her, yet there was no visible change. Eyes that love have a way of seeing more than is understood by scientific people, though they may analyze light with the spectrum and the polariscope, and all the other appliances together.

At the beeches he rode slowly up towards her. All at once he turned again, and began to descend the hill away from her; then, as suddenly, slipped off his horse to his feet, and walked towards her up the slope.

“Good morning!”

He did not offer his hand; their previous acquaintance was extremely slight. She held out hers, and he took it.

“Can I direct you?” he said, a little awkwardly.

“Oh, I know the way!”

“I did not know; I thought⁠—”

“I came up to see the sunrise,” she said, explaining; “but I was too late.”

“It is a beautiful morning,” said he.

No very brilliant conversation yet; as a matter of fact, people who are tête-à-tête for the first time in their lives do not talk brilliantly. Much, however, may be conveyed by tone and manner.

He did not look at her more than courtesy demanded: he looked at the sward, at the tree, anywhere but at her; yet his nature was truthful.

She looked straight in his face; she did not disguise her wistful glance. If he could only have let himself gaze into her eyes! But he would not. Her right hand moved restlessly; she almost put it on his shoulder.

They were both bareheaded. She held her hat in her left hand; he had taken off his when he saluted, and had not replaced it. The bright sunlight shone on her golden hair, and on his short brown-gold locks. Their shadows touched on the sward.

“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 her, and ask for more grass. She swiftly plaited his mane.

At that moment another horse neighed over the hill; they both looked round⁠—no one was in sight. But Ruy answered with a neigh, and in the same instant stepped forward. Barnard pressed his knee; Ruy began to move faster. Barnard bowed; his voice was temporarily inarticulate, and he was gone.

In a few minutes, he gained the wagon-track; and, without looking back, pressed Ruy at a rapid pace up the ascent, and disappeared over the summit. She went back to the beech, and in the shadow watched the next ridge. In five minutes man and horse came into view, climbed, and went down, like a ship at sea beneath the horizon. She saw them for the third time passing over the third ridge, and then, knowing that she should not see them any farther, turned to go. She soon regained the lane, where a farmer on horseback overtook and passed her, raising his hat. It was his horse that had neighed to Ruy.

Felise walked swiftly, and in the centre of the lane. The dew had dried from the blue veronica and the cowslip. Instead of wandering from side to side, looking at the flowers, and touching the green sprays, she went straight on. She did not notice a blackbird’s noisy note as he sprang up startled from among the young brake fern. The oak-trunk which had formed her seat was not looked at. Her mind was full of one thought, and she did not regard outward circumstances.

A shepherd with his dog at a gateway saw her go by; a man riding a thill-horse met her, and forced his horse, with the harness hanging and jingling, up into the nettles and brambles, to give her a royal right of road; ten or twelve haymakers, men and women, were filing across the lane out of one field across to another. They halted, and let her pass through their ranks. Some children with them shouted joyously at the sight of her. Neither the touching of hats, nor the curtseys, nor the voices of the children calling to her, attracted her a moment. Her mind was full of one thought, and she saw nothing.

At home she immediately ran upstairs, shut the door, and sat down. In another moment she got up to look at herself in the glass. Her cheeks were scarlet, partly the exertion, partly sunburn, partly excitement. The sun had scorched her face; love had scorched her heart. What had she done? Was it well, or wrong? Did he understand? He must have understood. Yet, perhaps, he might not have done so; he would not look at her. Their eyes had met but once.

Her face, her neck, flushed scarlet; she felt as if her very fingers tingled with shame. That she should have shown him so plainly her meaning⁠—that she should have actually held his horse by the bridle to stay him from leaving her!

With as violent a revulsion of feeling she laughed, caught up a brush, and brushed her hair, and revelled in the thought of her boldness. She wished she had done more.

“Why did I not hold his hand instead of his horse’s bridle?” she asked herself.

Suddenly she burst into tears, leant back, and became perfectly pale. A faintness came over her; everything before her eyes was black as if it was night. She did not faint⁠—she slowly recovered; and, going to the window, began to sing in a low voice. A girl came round the corner of the house.

“Mary, bring me a rose for my hair.”

In that simple country household, Mary Shaw was their only attendant. She was, however, young and good-looking, pleasant, and almost a friend. There was much affection between them.

“You must be main lear [very hungry],” said Mary, when she brought the rose; “you have been up Ashpen.”

“I am⁠—very hungry,” said Felise.

“Such a nice breakfast waiting for you.”

“I couldn’t eat a morsel,” said Felise. “How long the days are! I wish it was night!”

“It isn’t seven yet,” said Mary.

“Oh dear! These summer days are so long!”

“Yesterday you was saying how glad you were they was so long.”

“So I am.”

“There now! who’s to know what you means? That’s how all good-looking ladies goes on⁠—that’s how they worries the menfolk.”