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
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.