One afternoon he was watching the sun from his tower, half echoing the
Greek astronomer's wish that he might be set close to that luminary for
the wonder of beholding it in all its glory, under the slight penalty of
being consumed the next instant. He glanced over the high-road between
the field and the park (which sublunary features now too often distracted
his attention from his telescope), and saw her passing along that way.
She was seated in the donkey-carriage that had now taken the place of her
landau, the white animal looking no larger than a cat at that distance.
The buttoned boy, who represented both coachman and footman, walked
alongside the animal's head at a solemn pace; the dog stalked at the
distance of a yard behind the vehicle, without indulging in a single
gambol; and the whole turn-out resembled in dignity a dwarfed state
procession.
Here was an opportunity but for two obstructions: the boy, who might be
curious; and the dog, who might bark and attract the attention of any
labourers or servants near. Yet the risk was to be run, and, knowing
that she would soon turn up a certain shady lane at right angles to the
road she had followed, he ran hastily down the staircase, crossed the
barley (which now covered the field) by the path not more than a foot
wide that he had trodden for himself, and got into the lane at the other
end. By slowly walking along in the direction of the turnpike-road he
soon had the satisfaction of seeing her coming. To his surprise he also
had the satisfaction of perceiving that neither boy nor dog was in her
company.
They both blushed as they approached, she from sex, he from inexperience.
One thing she seemed to see in a moment, that in the interval of her
absence St. Cleeve had become a man; and as he greeted her with this new
and maturer light in his eyes she could not hide her embarrassment, or
meet their fire.
'I have just sent my page across to the column with your book on Cometary
Nuclei,' she said softly; 'that you might not have to come to the house
for it. I did not know I should meet you here.' 'Didn't you wish me to come to the house for it?' 'I did not, frankly. You know why, do you not?' 'Yes, I know. Well, my longing is at rest. I have met you again. But
are you unwell, that you drive out in this chair?' 'No; I walked out this morning, and am a little tired.' 'I have been looking for you night and day. Why do you turn your face
aside? You used not to be so.' Her hand rested on the side of the
chair, and he took it. 'Do you know that since we last met, I have been
thinking of you--daring to think of you--as I never thought of you
before?' 'Yes, I know it.' 'How did you know?' 'I saw it in your face when you came up.' 'Well, I suppose I ought not to think of you so. And yet, had I not
learned to, I should never fully have felt how gentle and sweet you are.
Only think of my loss if I had lived and died without seeing more in you
than in astronomy! But I shall never leave off doing so now. When you
talk I shall love your understanding; when you are silent I shall love
your face. But how shall I know that you care to be so much to me?' Her manner was disturbed as she recognized the impending self-surrender,
which she knew not how to resist, and was not altogether at ease in
welcoming.