VII

After Barnard had ridden over the third ridge, uphill and down, at a merciless rate, he checked his speed: first to a trot, then to a walk, and finally halted altogether. Next he turned Ruy’s head away from home (a change Ruy did not much like), and slowly retraced the route he had come away from Felise Goring.

But at first not very rapidly. It is the first few steps that are difficult, even in sweet things: hesitation, trembling, indecision accompanies them. Once well started on the flowery path, and the pace constantly accelerates. In ten minutes he was at full gallop back towards her. He had not the least idea what he was going to do⁠—what excuse he should make for returning⁠—whether he would go so near as to speak, or what.

He soon saw that she had left the spot. He rode up to the solitary beech and dismounted, mechanically repeating what he had done when she was there. So great criminals go through a dumb show in their sleep of guilt; so great pleasure leads us to step again in our happy footmarks. He looked at the beech, because she had been there, and caught sight of the incision in the bark. What was this?

The cuts were so thin, he guessed at once it was her work: a man would have slashed out larger strips. He traced the lines with his finger: one straight descending stroke, and a small V attached to it at the top on the right side. When his finger reached the end of the ascending groove, involuntarily he drew it down the uncut bark, as if another straight stroke had been there, and recognised in an instant what the incomplete character stood for; i.e. M. A capital M⁠—his own initial; Martial Barnard.

He took out his own knife, and cut the stroke necessary to complete the letter.

Hurrying to Ruy, who was feeding, he got up, and rode round the hill, and into the lane. Though so far behind at starting, his speed was thrice hers; he thought he could easily overtake her. But she had progressed farther than he anticipated, and he found himself near her home without seeing anything of her. Then he asked himself what should he do if he did overtake her? Could he ride up⁠—could he speak to her? What could he say?

At this moment when Barnard let his horse walk, Felise was scarcely a hundred yards in front, but concealed by a turn of the lane.

“M,” he said to himself, “might stand for many other names⁠—for Martin, for Mark; perhaps, after all, it was only a freak⁠—an accidental resemblance to an M, and no letter was intended.”

But the look⁠—the look which had held him; the depth of those beautiful eyes; the wistful expression of the face⁠—he saw it before him as he saw it at the moment. Should he ever forget it?⁠—he felt that it would never fade. As he thought of it, he looked down, and saw the plaited piece of mane. He cut it off, and put it in his pocketbook.

But in the pocketbook there were dates, and entries referring to⁠—no matter; he took the plait from the pocketbook, and placed it with his watch.

His conduct? To forget past vows; to follow another woman; to let his mind dwell upon this new face⁠—could anything be more despicable?

He turned Ruy with some violence, and walked him back up the lane. But why should he be better than others? Why set up to be so ultra-honourable? Was he not free in the eyes of the world?

As he pondered, still with her face before him, he saw a handkerchief, whits and delicate of texture, almost under Ruy’s hoofs; for the horse, left to himself, had chosen to walk on the sward near the hedge. Martial got down, and picked up the handkerchief. There were the initials F. G. in the corner. It exhaled a slight perfume, the sweet delicate odour of the beautiful woman to whom it belonged, and he kissed it. With this he might ride up to her house even; it would be an excuse.

No; he could not⁠—he must not. He remounted, and pursued his way along the lane, round the hill, back to the solitary beech with the glistening letter cut in its bark.

He reproved himself for permitting himself even to think of her; so he spoke aloud, as it were, mentally. At the same moment he was inquiring. Did that look mean anything? If so, was it real⁠—was it true? Or was she heartless, and merely using a lovely face to play upon him? Surely she was too beautiful; and yet⁠—why should she select him for such a glance? Their acquaintance was but trivial, and Barnard, to do him justice, was without conceit. She could not mean it; and yet, and yet!

And so the summer day wore on. To one it was too long, because she did not know how long it would be before she saw him again; the other took no heed of the glorious sunlight, because a face floated before him.