Mrs. Dewsbury's lawn was held by those who knew it the loveliest in

Surrey. The smooth and springy sward that stretched in front of

the house was all composed of a tiny yellow clover. It gave

beneath the foot like the pile on velvet. One's gaze looked forth

from it upon the endless middle distances of the oak-clad Weald,

with the uncertain blue line of the South Downs in the background.

Ridge behind ridge, the long, low hills of paludina limestone stood

out in successive tiers, each thrown up against its neighbor by the

misty haze that broods eternally over the wooded valley; till,

roaming across them all, the eye rested at last on the rearing

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scarp of Chanctonbury Ring, faintly pencilled on the furthest skyline.

Shadowy phantoms of dim heights framed the verge to east and

west. Alan Merrick drank it in with profound satisfaction. After

those sharp and clear-cut Italian outlines, hard as lapis lazuli,

the mysterious vagueness, the pregnant suggestiveness, of our

English scenery strikes the imagination; and Alan was fresh home

from an early summer tour among the Peruginesque solidities of the

Umbrian Apennines. "How beautiful it all is, after all," he said,

turning to his entertainer. "In Italy 'tis the background the

painter dwells upon; in England, we look rather at the middle

distance."

Mrs. Dewsbury darted round her the restless eye of a hostess, to

see upon whom she could socially bestow him. "Oh, come this way,"

she said, sweeping across the lawn towards a girl in a blue dress

at the opposite corner. "You must know our new-comer. I want to

introduce you to Miss Barton, from Cambridge. She's SUCH a nice

girl too,--the Dean of Dunwich's daughter."

Alan Merrick drew back with a vague gesture of distaste. "Oh,

thank you," he replied; "but, do you know, I don't think I like

deans, Mrs. Dewsbury." Mrs. Dewsbury's smile was recondite and

diplomatic. "Then you'll exactly suit one another," she answered

with gay wisdom. "For, to tell you the truth, I don't think SHE

does either."

The young man allowed himself to be led with a passive protest in

the direction where Mrs. Dewsbury so impulsively hurried him. He

heard that cultivated voice murmuring in the usual inaudible tone

of introduction, "Miss Barton, Mr. Alan Merrick." Then he raised

his hat. As he did so, he looked down at Herminia Barton's face

with a sudden start of surprise. Why, this was a girl of most

unusual beauty!

She was tall and dark, with abundant black hair, richly waved above

the ample forehead; and she wore a curious Oriental-looking navy-blue

robe of some soft woollen stuff, that fell in natural folds

and set off to the utmost the lissome grace of her rounded figure.

It was a sort of sleeveless sack, embroidered in front with

arabesques in gold thread, and fastened obliquely two inches below

the waist with a belt of gilt braid, and a clasp of Moorish jewel-work.

Beneath it, a bodice of darker silk showed at the arms and

neck, with loose sleeves in keeping. The whole costume, though

quite simple in style, a compromise either for afternoon or

evening, was charming in its novelty, charming too in the way it

permitted the utmost liberty and variety of movement to the lithe

limbs of its wearer. But it was her face particularly that struck

Alan Merrick at first sight. That face was above all things the

face of a free woman. Something so frank and fearless shone in

Herminia's glance, as her eye met his, that Alan, who respected

human freedom above all other qualities in man or woman, was taken

on the spot by its perfect air of untrammelled liberty. Yet it was

subtle and beautiful too, undeniably beautiful. Herminia Barton's

features, I think, were even more striking in their way in later

life, when sorrow had stamped her, and the mark of her willing

martyrdom for humanity's sake was deeply printed upon them. But

their beauty then was the beauty of holiness, which not all can

appreciate. In her younger days, as Alan Merrick first saw her,

she was beautiful still with the first flush of health and strength

and womanhood in a free and vigorous English girl's body. A

certain lofty serenity, not untouched with pathos, seemed to strike

the keynote. But that was not all. Some hint of every element in

the highest loveliness met in that face and form,--physical,

intellectual, emotional, moral.




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