The Woman Who Did | Page 4

OWN TASTE
AND MY OWN CONSCIENCE

PREFACE

"But surely no woman would ever dare to do so," said my friend.
"I knew a woman who did," said I; "and this is her story."

I.

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.
"You'll like him, Herminia," Mrs. Dewsbury said, nodding. "He's one of your own kind,
as dreadful as you are;