THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES The Dewy Morn 1 flobcl. BY RICHARD JEFFERIES, AI'THOR OF 'THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,' 'THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS,' ' RED DEER,' ETC. ' Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade.' Shakespeare. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, publishers in (Driunarg to ^tjev JttajestjJ the Queen. 1884. [All Rights Reserved.} I THE DEWY MORN. ►f-se-j-- CHAPTER I. HE sunbeams streamed over Ashpen Hill into a broad lane, a little after four in the morning. Felise was walking slowly towards the hill, which was yet at some distance, staying every moment to glance aside into the green and dew-laden hedges. On her right the hedge came to the sward ; on the left a bank rose, and the hedge went along the summit. The fragrance of the dew, invisibly evaporating, filled the air she breathed. From sweet-green hawthorn leaves, from VOL. I. i [~» ?>-» ,r~* »»"» f~> f «. •*>,* 5650/ THE DEWY MORN. heavy grasses drooping, the glittering drops dissolving brought with them the odour of leaf and flower. The larks, long since up, had sung the atmosphere clear of the faint white mist left by the night. She found blue veronica in a bunch of grass under a dead thorn-branch, blown by the winds months ago out from the hedge. She lifted up the branch to Hing it aside, and give the flowers more room and freedom ; but she replaced it, reflecting that the thorns would perhaps prevent passing sheep from treading on them. Upon the bank there was a cowslip ; one stalk bore deep orange flowers, the others bunches yet unopened, and clothed in delicate green. Felise took the flower, which no bee had yet sipped, put it to her lips, and then placed it in her dress. She stepped lightly round the smooth brown boulder-stones with which the lane was dotted in places — rude disjointed efforts at paving — beside which grew bunches of THE DEWY MORN. rushes, safe there from the cart-wheels. Not even cart-wheels could stand the jolt over these iron rocks. She walked sometimes on the elevated sides of the ruts — the earth had been forced up by the crushing weight of waggon-loads ; they were grass-grown, and the grass hung over the groove, along which weasels often hunted. Sometimes she trod the sward by the bank, where it was short, and full of three- leaved clover whose white bloom was not yet out ; then, crossing to the opposite side, she sauntered by the hedge there, letting the hawthorn brush her skirt, and the soft green hooks of the young bramble-shoots strive in vain to hold her. An ash-branch stood out to bar her path. She stopped and touched it, and counted the leaves on the sprays ; they were all un- even. In the grass ahead the pinkish ears of a young rabbit stood up ; he was nibbling peacefully, heedless of her approach. Not 4 THE DEWY MORN. till she was close did he raise himself to look at her, first sitting on his haunches, then. as if about to beg, then away into the burrow. Her white hand wandered presently among more blue veronica flowering on the slope of the bank. She did not gather — she touched only, and went on. She touched, too, the tips of some brake, freshly-green, and rising rapidly now day by day. A rush of wings — a wood-pigeon came over ; he was startled, and, swerving, went higher into the air. There was honeysuckle on the hedge above the bank, too far to reach. She took a hawthorn leaf, felt it, and dropped it ; then pulled a bennet, or grass-stalk, and dropped that ; then pulled a rush, and left it. A lover might have tracked her easily by the foot-marks on the dewy grass — by the rush thrown down, and by the white handkerchief which she had carried in her hand and un- consciously dropped. A robin came to look at the handkerchief before she had ofone THE DEWY MORN. many minutes ; he thought perhaps there might be a crumb, and he is, too, very in- quisitive. Felise sat down on a great trunk of oak lying in. the lane by a gateway, and sighed with very depth of enjoyment. There was a yellow-hammer perched on the gate, and he had been singing. When Felise approached, •he ceased ; but seeing that she was quiet and intended him no harm, he began again. His four or five rising notes, and the long-drawn idle-sounding note with which they conclude, suited so well with the sunshine, they soothed her still further. She sighed again, and let herself sit loosely on the oak-trunk, like the yellow-hammer. He had his back humped, and all his body rested comfortably. So did she ; she permitted her back to bow, her shoulders to stoop, her limbs to relax, and idle nature to have her own way. After a while she sighed again. She was bathing in the beauty of the morning — floating upheld on the dewy THE DEWY MORN. petals. A swimmer lies on the warm summer water, the softest of couches, ex- tended at full length, the body so gently held that it undulates slightly with the faint swell. So soft is the couch it softens the frame, which becomes supple, flexible, like the water itself. Felise was lying on the flowers and grass, extended under the sun, steeped in their sweetness. She visibly sat on the oak-trunk — invisibly her nature was reclining, as the swimmer on the sun-warmed sea. Her frame drooped as the soul, which bears it up, flowed outwards, feeling to grass, and flower, and leaf, as the swimmer spreads the arms abroad, and the fingers feel the water. She sighed with deep content, dissolving in the luxurious bath of beauty. Her strong heart beating, the pulses throbbing, her bosom rising and regularly sinking with the rich waves of life ; her supple limbs and roundness filled with the plenty of ripe youth ; her white, soft, roseate THE DEWY MORN. skin, the surface where the sun touched her hand glistening with the dew of the pore ; the bloom upon her — that glow of the morn of life — the hair more lovely than the sunlight ; the grace unwritten of perfect form — these produced within her a sense of existence — a consciousness of being, to which she was abandoned ; and her lips parted to sigh. . The sigh was the expression of feeling herself to be. To be ! To live ! To have an intense enjoyment in every inspiration of breath ; in every beat of the pulse ; in every movement of the limbs ; in every sense ! The rugged oak-trunk was pleasant to her. She placed her hand on the brown, stained wood — stained with its own sap, for the bark had been removed. She touched it ; and so full of life was her touch, that it found a pleasure in that rude wood. The brown boulder-stone in the lane, ancient, smoothed, and ground in times which have vanished like a cloud, its surface the colour of old 8 THE DEWY MORN. polished oak, reflecting the sun with a dull gleam — the very boulder-stone was pleasant to her, so full of life was her sense of sight. There came a skylark, dropping over the hedge, and alighted on a dusty level spot in the lane. His shadow shot a foot long on the dust, thrown by the level beams of the sun. The dust, in shadow and sunshine — the despised dust — now that the lark drew her glance to it, was pleasant to see. All things are joyously beautiful to those who feel themselves to be ; but it is only given to the chosen of nature to know this exceeding delight. In herself rapt, the whole face of earth and sky ministered to her, each and all that made up the visible world was flung at her feet. They did homage — Felise, queen of herself, was queen of all. It was love without a lover — love absorbed in itself. Her whole existence was quiver- ing with love ; this intensity of life was love. She was gathering from sunlight, azure sky THE DEWY MORN. and grassy fields, from dewy hills and all the morning, an immense strength to love. Her parted lips sighed — there was such store and warmth of love within them. Without a thought she thought deeply, pondering, weighed down on herself with weight of feeling. Her own intense existence absorbed her. Till looking that w T ay, she saw that there was now a broad space between the lower rim of the sun and the hill she meant to climb ; then she got up, and went on. She had started in time to see the sun rise, from its summit, but had idled and dallied with flowers and green boughs on the way, and lost the sunrise. CHAPTER II. HE 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 THE DEWY MORN. n 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 al. 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 ap- peared 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 waggons 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, I 2 THE DEWY MORN. 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 THE DEWY MORN. 13 which, like lesser mile-stones, marked her run. Her limbs grew stronger, her bounds more powerful, as her breath was drawn in long, deep inspirations. The labour in- creased 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 fulness of her own existence. The great heart within her throbbed and bore her, replying to her spirit. More flints, more thyme — a stone-chat 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 ol 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 re- mained slightly bent. The pliant ribs, opened i 4 THE DEWY MORN. 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. Sud- denly the slope became less steep, where the summit seemed planed away ; her feet went along instead of having to be lifted. She THE DEWY MORN. 15 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. 1 6 THE DEWY MORN. 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 corn- fields, 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, THE DEWY MORN. 17 that greatness of heart ! Pure love, pure as the spring-water 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. vol. 1. 2 CHAPTER III. HE 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 ; THE DEWY MORN. 19 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 sun- beams. By night it was with her. An 2 — 2 2o THE DEWY MORN. inexpressible fulness 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 ^schylus ; among the stars THE DEWY MORN. 21 that swept by over the hill ; by the surge that ran up and kissed her feet. The pointed erass 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. 22 THE DEWY MORN. 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 THE DEWY MORN. 23 flower-show, or a fete, 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 fete 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 24 THE DEWY MORN. 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 sea- weed in the shallow. In the clear water THE DEWY MORN. 25 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 26 THE DEWY MORN. —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 sone — 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. ■I tfflfn ■■-. , v^fc'';,':'. \' ' ,^& < I ^;/ ;il '!>v l ' l A''V. t '-v:^:-,'; i: '.M l .'v.'.vr.v 1 i CHAPTER IV. ELISE listened to the larks as they rose and sang — now one, now two, now six or seven at once. They did not soar to a great height ; but, starting from a field of clover beneath, came up a little above the level where she sat, and sang like a chorus before her. She listened, and in her heart silently asked the same as they did aloud. Over their nests and their beloved ones they uttered their verses, in melody requiring "of the sun and of the earth happiness for these, and for themselves per- mission to live. Chanting their welcome to the sun, they breathlessly poured out a prayer demanding, THE DEWY MORN. in a thousand trills, that the joy of day and life might descend upon their homes. They sank to the clover, but speedily came up again, restless in their gladness, eager to acknowledge the benefit of day, eager to secure fulfilment of their hopes for their young, fearful lest they had not expressed themselves sufficiently, lest they had seemed ungrateful. Felise asked in her heart the same as they did. Her overflowing heart asked happi- ness for the image that now filled it ; for herself only that she might contribute to his happiness — that she might sacrifice herself — that she might lay down her life for him. Of old, old time the classic women in the ' Violet Land ' of Greece went out to the sun- rise, and, singing to Apollo, the sun, prayed that their hearts might be satisfied, and their homes secured ; by the fountain they asked of the water that the highest aspirations of their souls might be fulfilled ; of the earth THE DEWY MORN. 29 they asked an abundance for those whom they loved. No more the hymn is heard to the sun ; no more the stream murmurs in an under- tone to the chorus of human hopes ; no more the earth sees its wheat and its flowers taken from it to be presented to it again upon the altar in token of gratitude and prayer. But still the larks, as then, and still the thrushes, the fleeting swallows, and the doves, address themselves to sun, and earth, and stream, and heaven. Their songs vary not, their creed does not change, their prayer goes forth to the same old gods. Have our hopes and hearts changed in the centuries ? No ; not one whit. Felise asked the same as many a deep- breasted maiden in the days of Apollo and Aphrodite. Only her heart was pure, and uncontaminated even by any sensuous myth. The larks sang out of the fulness of their hearts ; they were not conscious that they So THE DEWY MORN. prayed, though in truth they did. Her heart spoke without volition, she was not aware she was praying. With all her being she demanded that joy might reach her beloved, that she might lie like the dust at his feet, in her sacrifice her triumph. Came the sun in all his cdory, and the wind from the sea ; the deep azure sky was over her, the woods and the green wheat below. The hills were all her own ; there was no one else to claim them in the morn- ing. She alone looked at the sky, and it was hers. Could she have done so, she would have sfiven the wide earth and all its fruits to her beloved. The richness of the corn in the plain, and of the luxuriant grasses in the meadow ; the ancient oaks and the thousand elms ; the hedges hung with honeysuckle, and where the roses were coming ; the sweet waters, and the flowers that stood bv them : all that grew afar to the horizon. Nor was that enough. The dim blue sea yonder, the THE DEWY MORN. 31 bright blue heavens, the glowing light ; she would have given him all for his delight, as a goddess of old time might have taken a mortal in her chariot through the ether. She was leaning on her arm, reclining on the sward, and the throbs of her heart vibrated through her arm to the earth. Quickened by the violence of her run up the hill it beat rapidly, causing her arm to tremble slightly. It was meet that so noble a heart should rest upon the boundless earth. There the rudeness of its beat diminished, and the vehemence of the vibra- tion subsided. But not so the vehemence of the passion within. The glowing light and pleasant air, the broad green wheat under, all the blue above, the beauty of the world but fed the flame. So much the more she entered into the loveliness of the day, so much the more grew the desire which was her life. She had gone out at the dawn that she might grasp it from the sun at his rising, 32 THE DEWY MORN. that she might steal from the dewy grass and the fresh leaves, and seize her love from the purple sky. The sun had risen and the morning was opening into day, but she was insatiate, still she wished for more. She had fed herself with the light, and dew, and loveliness of the sunny morn, yet her hunger crew with all she fed on. There was no rest for her in the sunlight, on all the wide earth. If in the time to come she should have her dream, would even then her heart be satisfied ? Could she ever love enough to relieve her love ? The one over-mastering desire was to give — nothing for herself, all for him. To give him all things ; to ask nothing in re- turn. Her desire was immeasurable — she looked greedily on the earth spread out at the base of the hill — that she might pour plenty at his feet, that she might give him the loveliness of all. The larks were still singing, but she was THE DEWY MORN. 33 not listening now. Their notes were far away, as if they sang higher than the clouds. Tears gathered in her eyes, and dimmed the view of the beauteous morn. Her breast heaved once, and her breath paused in her throat, checked by a sigh. A deep prayer can but end in tears — a prayer like this which has no words, but gives a life instead of them. It was not sorrow, it was the un- utterable depth of her joy in the love that held her. He knew it not — what of that? He might never know — what of that ? She had given her life to him, and it was a joy to her that she had done so. But with that joy there mingled the undertone of knowledge and of thought, that she should never, never, not even if his arms were about her, be able to fully pour forth her heart, making him under- stand her. How could he understand her ? How could she ever tell him ? And all that she could ever do for him under the happiest circumstances could not amount to one vol. 1. 3 34 THE DEWY MORN. hundredth part of what she wished to do. She felt in that moment of tears that the fruition of human wishes can never equal the desire. The limit is reached long, long before. All falls so short. Her breath came freely again, and she saw the distant sea clearly — the mist in her eyes was gone. Once more the larks sang sweetly, and she listened. If we cannot reach to ideal things, at least we can do much, nearer to earth. The larks cannot rise to the heavens, but they sing high above their nests, and their voices are sweet to all below them. Felise raised herself higher on her arm, and looked boldly at the blue sea-line. Her heart rose again ; the strong courage in her inspired it. Bright and beautiful as the morning she rose to her feet, dauntless and resolute. Her will was strengthened by love, made ten times stronger. Bold as the sun, unabashed as the day, she would have her will ; she claimed love as her right. Come what might, she would be his. CHAPTER V. | HE 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 3 6 THE DEWY MORN. 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 recog- nised 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 half-way, 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, THE DEWY MORN. 37 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 look- ing at the paper — that is, to let the pencil obey the mandate of the eye without the in- tervening 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 — 3 8 THE DEWY MORN. 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 de- scended 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 finder 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. THE DEWY MORN. 39 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 thought- lessly, and without intent. Now see what follows from one stroke, and how careful people should be before they begin any- thing. 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 4 o THE DEWY MORN. were two glistening lines of sap, in shape something like half the conventional arrow- head on Government property — |S . 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 — [J . 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 likely 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 THE DEWY MORN. 41 must be evident to others. Guilty people always imagine everyone is watching them — that everyone detects their secret. Some one 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, descend- ing 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 bee-line 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 42 THE DEWY MORN. 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 eye- lids 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. THE DEWY MORN. 43 Instantly her breath came quicker, and her heart beat faster ; the nerves had re- lieved 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 44 THE DEWY MORN. on his gallop, on his horse, and especially upon his own thoughts. But to this circum- stance the circular shape of the grassy circus contributed ; for it is a curious fact that any- one standing on the side of a round cavity, or inside a round building, may be over- looked. 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 any- one 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 2:0 along the waggon-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 THE DEWY MORN. 45 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 46 THE DEWY MORN. 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. THE DEWY MORN. 47 He rode without a saddle, only a bridle. The horse was a large bay, almost large enough for a weight-carrying hunter ; a hand- some creature whose flanks mi^ht 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 waggon-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 waggon-track, and continued along the circus, still at a walking-pace. This time, as he approached the beeches, he saw her. CHAPTER VI r < ml HE knew he did, although no alteration was perceptible in his manner. Watching him so nar- rowly, she felt that he had seen her, yet there was no visible change. Eyes that love have a way of seeing more than is under- stood 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 THE DEWY MORN. 49 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. 1 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 tete-a-tete for the first time in their lives do not talk brilliantly. Much, however, may be con- veyed 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 vol. 1. 4 5o THE DEWY MORN. not disguise her wistful glance. If he could only have let himself gaze into her eyes \ But he would not. Her ri^ht 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.' H 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 THE DEWY MORN. 5I 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 waggon-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 4—2 52 THE DEWY MORN. speak, that she might see him, and hear his voice. 1 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, askincr some loving hand to smooth them back. The white brow without a stain, a mark, a line ; no kiss there but must be THE DEWY MORN. 53 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 54 THE DEWY MORN. 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 con- sciousness 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, em- barrassed to the last degree, and holding out his hand. THE DEWY MORN. 55 She would not see it. She took the bridle, and stroked Ruy's neck, placing her cheek almost against the glossy skin. Obey- ing the pressure of his knee, Ruy began to move slowly. She walked beside him, hold- ing 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. 56 THE DEWY MORN. 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 him- self, 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 turn- ing 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 THE DEWY MORN. 57 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 waggon- track ; and, without looking back, pressed Ruy at a rapid pace up the ascent, and dis- appeared 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 58 THE DEWY MORN. veronica and the cowslip. Instead of wander- ing from side to side, looking at the llowers, and touching the green sprays, she went straight on. She did not notice a black- bird'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 cir- cumstances. 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 THE DEWY MORN. 59 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 w T ere 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 under- stand ? 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 60 THE DEWY MORN. boldness. She wished she had done more. ' Why did I not hold his hand instead of his horse's bridle ?' she asked her- self. 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. 1 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. THE DEWY MORN. 61 1 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 !' 1 It isn't seven yet,' said Mary. 4 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 eood-lookins ladies goes on — that's how they worries the men- folk.' CHAPTER VII FTER 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 ac- companies them. Once well started on the flowery path, and the pace constantly ac- celerates. In ten minutes he was at full THE DEWY MORN. 63 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 dis- mounted, 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 foot-marks. 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 riofht side. When his finder reached the end of the ascending groove, involuntarily he drew it down the uncut bark, as if another 6 4 THE DEWY MORN. straight stroke had been there, and recog- nised 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 him- self 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 ; THE DEWY MORN. 65 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 pocket-book. But in the pocket-book there were dates, and entries referring to — no matter ; he took the plait from the pocket-book, 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 vol. 1. 5 66 THE DEWY MORN. 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, white 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 hand- kerchief. 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 re- mounted, 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 him- self even to think of her ; so he spoke aloud, as it were, mentally. At the same moment he was inquiring, Did that look mean any- THE DEWY MORN. 67 thing ? 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 lone it would be before she saw him o again ; the other took no heed of the glorious sunlight, because a face floated before him. 5— 2 CHAPTER VIII. OME ten or twelve days afterwards Felise started to bathe, telling Shaw to follow in a quarter of an hour with her towels. It was about eleven, and all the dew long since dry ; the garden- path was hedged on either side with peonies, whose large flowers hung heavily. Open the folio-petals like the leaves of a book, and you will find the imperial purple of the heavens at sunset deep within the volume. Beyond the peonies h'er skirt rustled on grass, grown high under apple-trees, and the shade of the apple-boughs crossed her shoulder as she walked. She saw her uncle. THE DEWY MORN. 69 Mr. Goring, at a distance, busy at his bees. A swarm hung from an apple-bough, and, clad in his net, he was charmine them into a hive. Gardening and bee-keeping, plant- ing trees, and all similar pleasure-work, is of no interest unless you do it yourself. He did everything himself, and knew every shoot, because he had himself pruned the branch. Felise went on along a filbert-walk — Goring's own planting — then out by a yew- hedge higher than her head, and past the sundial. On the northern side of the sun- dial, under a sycamore, with the tall yew- hedge in the rear, a seat was placed ; it was Felise's favourite resort, because there was a view of the distant hills, and in the afternoon of the sunset, from this place. He had planted the grounds so thickly with trees that this was almost the only spot where a view could be obtained. Next she walked beside a hawthorn-hedge. Goring had made a gravel walk parallel with THE DEWY MORN. the hedge, which led through the meadow to a copse at hand. There was a narrow valley between two slopes covered with wood ; a copse had always been there, but Goring planted the summit each side with beech, and dotted American scarlet oaks about, besides cutting green walks among the ash, where, on turning a corner, you came unexpectedly on a bed of flowers or straw- berries. So soon as she reached the copse and had put her hand on the wicket-gate she heard the rush of falling waters. For some reason it was not audible till the wicket was reached, thence at every step in the wood it increased in volume of sound. A little stream from the chalk hill ran through the wood ; years and years ago it had been banked up, and a pool made, in which there were trout. The pool was large enough for a boathouse ; by the boathouse was a special compart- ment constructed for Felise. for bathing purposes. THE DEWY MORN. 71 Here she had learnt to swim ; Goring taught her. Surrounded by wooded hills, and absolutely private, there could not have been a choicer place for bathing. The sea was so near — five miles is very little to coun- try people — and Felise displayed so wilful a resolution to go out upon it at all times and seasons, that Goring never felt safe till she could swim. Of course she beat her teacher. ' Papa ' — he was only her uncle, though, as she had never known her parents, she called him papa — was getting grey. She could beat him swimming — three to one. Felise moved more slowly in the ash-wood, listening to the rush of the water as it fell over the hatch of the pond. It rendered her thoughtful. Climbing up the embankment which held the water in, she sat down on the beam of the hatch. Behind her the water dropped in an arch, ten feet deep, into a gully nearly crossed by ferns, which per- petually nodded. The spray struck them and bent them down ; they rose up and were 72 THE DEWY MORN. struck down again ; and so on all day and night. Before her the pool stretched out, an acre or two, broad at this end and deep, and narrowing up to a point where the stream ran in. The wood came down close on three sides ; on the fourth, at her left hand, was a narrow strip of sward. The boathouse, on the right, was in shadow, being overhung by beeches ; all the rest of the mere in bright sunshine. Felise put up her sunshade and listened to the rush of the cataract. Though it seemed to fill the ear, the notes of a blackbird in the wood were distinct above it ; they pierced the diffused sound of the waterfall. A chaf- finch perched close to her ; there were some long-winged flies floating about ; the finch darted out and took these almost from under her parasol. She was thinking. She had been up to the downs, and had visited the beech-tree three times since. She looked for her mark THE DEWY MORN. 73 cut in the bark, and found it had been com- pleted. Some one had added the stroke which rendered it intelligible as an ' M.' Who could have done that ? Her first thought was that it was Martial ; he had returned, seen what she had been doing, guessed, and finished it. This was what had actually taken place ; but first thoughts are not always accepted. If he had done it, then her secret was out. Could it be called a secret after that inter- view ? Her cheeks burned ; she had so de- sired he should know, yet now she supposed he did know, she recoiled. For a moment only, however. If he had guessed and had completed the letter, then she was only too glad. But had he ? He had tried so hard to get away from her. He did not take the least interest in her. Possibly he thought her bold — troublesomely bold ; then he would not be likely to have returned to the spot where she had been a weariness to him. It must have 74 THE DEWY MORN. been some shepherd lad whiling away the slow hours in the shadow of the beech who had carved the last stroke: of the letter. Yet she did not know. Heart said one thing- : thought another. Heart said, ' He did it ; he is not quite indifferent to me ; he has been here ; he knows — he understands.' Thought said, ' He is entirely indifferent ; my face, my form does not please him ; why should he come back ? Oh no ! this was the work of a shepherd lad.' Yet she did not know. But if he had returned once, perhaps he would come acrain ; so she went to the place three times, waited for an hour or two, and saw nothing of him. Of course not ; he did not care. He never