He met her by appointment on the first ridge of Bore Hill. A sunny

summer morning smiled fresh after the rain. Bumble-bees bustled

busily about the closed lips of the red-rattle, and ripe gorse pods

burst with little elastic explosions in the basking sunlight.

When Alan reached the trysting-place, under a broad-armed oak, in a

glade of the woodland, Herminia was there before him; a good woman

always is, 'tis the prerogative of her affection. She was simply

dressed in her dainty print gown, a single tea-rosebud peeped out

from her bodice; she looked more lily-like, so Alan thought in his

heart, than he had ever yet seen her. She held out her hand to him

with parted lips and a conscious blush. Alan took it, but bent

forward at the same time, and with a hasty glance around, just

touched her rich mouth. Herminia allowed him without a struggle;

she was too stately of mien ever to grant a favor without granting

it of pure grace, and with queenly munificence.

Alan led her to a grassy bank where thyme and basil grew matted,

and the hum of myriad wings stirred the sultry air; Herminia let

him lead her. She was woman enough by nature to like being led;

only, it must be the right man who led her, and he must lead her

along the path that her conscience approved of. Alan seated

himself by her side, and took her hand in his; Herminia let him

hold it. This lovemaking was pure honey. Dappled spots of light

and shade flecked the ground beneath the trees like a jaguar's

skin. Wood-pigeons crooned, unseen, from the leafy covert. She

sat there long without uttering a word. Once Alan essayed to

speak, but Herminia cut him short. "Oh, no, not yet," she cried

half petulantly; "this silence is so delicious. I love best just

to sit and hold your hand like this. Why spoil it with language?"

So they sat for some minutes, Herminia with her eyes half-closed,

drinking in to the full the delight of first love. She could feel

her heart beating. At last Alan interposed, and began to speak to

her. The girl drew a long breath; then she sighed for a second, as

she opened her eyes again. Every curve of her bosom heaved and

swayed mysteriously. It seemed such a pity to let articulate words

disturb that reverie. Still, if Alan wished it. For a woman is a

woman, let Girton do its worst; and Herminia not less but rather

more than the rest of them.

Then Alan began. With her hand clasped in his, and fondling it

while he spoke, he urged all he could urge to turn her from her

purpose. He pointed out to her how unwise, how irretrievable her

position would be, if she once assumed it. On such a road as that

there is no turning back. The die once cast, she must forever

abide by it. He used all arts to persuade and dissuade; all

eloquence to save her from herself and her salvation. If he loved

her less, he said with truth, he might have spoken less earnestly.

It was for her own sake he spoke, because he so loved her. He

waxed hot in his eager desire to prevent her from taking this fatal

step. He drew his breath hard, and paused. Emotion and anxiety

overcame him visibly.




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