The Heart

I rode a pace behind Mary Cavendish, and never glanced her way, not

needing to do so in order to see her, for I seemed to see her with a

superior sort of vision compounded partly of memory and partly of

imagination. Of the latter I had, not to boast, though it may

perchance be naught to boast of, being simply a kind of higher

folly, a somewhat large allowance from my childhood. But that was

not to be wondered at, whether it were to my credit or otherwise,

since it was inherited from ancestors of much nobler fame and

worthier parts than I, one of whom, though not in the direct line,

the great Edward Maria Wingfield, the president of the first council

of the Dominion of Virginia, having written a book which was held to

be notable. This imagination for the setting forth and adorning of

all common things and happenings, and my woman's name of Maria, my

whole name being Harry Maria Wingfield, through my ancestor having

been a favourite of a great queen, and so called for her honour,

were all my inheritance at that date, all the estates belonging to

the family having become the property of my younger brother John.

But when I speak of my possessing an imagination which could gild

all the common things of life, I meant not to include Mistress Mary

Cavendish therein, for she needed not such gilding, being one of the

most uncommon things in the earth, as uncommon as a great diamond

which is rumoured to have been seen by travellers in far India. My

imagination when directed toward her was exercised only with the

comparing and combining of various and especial beauties of

different times and circumstances, when she was attired this way or

that way, or was grave or gay, or sweetly helpless and clinging or

full of daring. When, riding near her, I did not look at her, she

seemed all of these in one, and I was conscious of such a great

dazzle forcing my averted eyes, that I seemed to be riding behind a

star.

I knew full well, though, as I said before, not studying the matter,

just how Mistress Mary Cavendish sat her horse, which was a noble

thoroughbred from England, though the one which I rode was a nobler,

she having herself selected him for my use. The horse which she

rode, Merry Roger, did not belie his name, for he was full of

prances and tosses of his fine head, and prickings of his dainty

pointed ears, but Mistress Mary sat him as lightly and truly and

unswervingly as a blossom sits a dancing bough.