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through the entrance…gates； got down from the panting Rattler；
and went into the house to take a hasty luncheon。 But I believe
there have been men since his day who have ridden a long way to
avoid a rencontre； and then galloped hastily back lest they should
miss it。 It is the favourite stratagem of our passions to sham a
retreat； and to turn sharp round upon us at the moment we have
made up our minds that the day is our own。
“The cap’n’s been ridin’ the devil’s own pace；” said Dalton the
coachman； whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his
pipe against the stable wall； when John brought up Rattler。
“An’ I wish he’d get the devil to do’s grooming for’n；” growled
John。
“Aye； he’d hev a deal hamabler groom nor what he has now；”
observed Dalton—and the joke appeared to him so good that；
being left alone upon the scene； he continued at intervals to take
his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an imaginary audience
and shake luxuriously with a silent； ventral laughter； mentally
rehearsing the dialogue from the beginning； that he might recite it
with effect in the servants’ hall。
When Arthur went up to his dressing…room again after
luncheon； it was inevitable that the debate he had had with
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himself there earlier in the day should flash across his mind； but it
was impossible for him now to dwell on the remembrance—
impossible to recall the feelings and reflections which had been
decisive with him then； any more than to recall the peculiar scent
of the air that had freshened him when he first opened his
window。 The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an ill…
stemmed current； he was amazed himself at the force with which
this trivial fancy seemed to grasp him： he was even rather
tremulous as he brushed his hair—pooh！ it was riding in that
break…neck way。 It was because he had made a serious affair of an
idle matter； by thinking of it as if it were of any consequence。 He
would amuse himself by seeing Hetty to…day； and get rid of the
whole thing from his mind。 It was all Irwine’s fault。 “If Irwine had
said nothing； I shouldn’t have thought half so much of Hetty as of
Meg’s lameness。” However； it was just the sort of day for lolling in
the Hermitage； and he would go and finish Dr。 Moore’s Zeluco
there before dinner。 The Hermitage stood in Fir…tree Grove—the
way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm。 So
nothing could be simpler and more natural： meeting Hetty was a
mere circumstance of his walk； not its object。
Arthur’s shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of
the Chase than might have been expected from the shadow of a
tired man on a warm afternoon； and it was still scarcely four
o’clock when he stood before the tall narrow gate leading into the
delicious labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of the Chase；
and which was called Fir…tree Grove； not because the firs were
many； but because they were few。 It was a wood of beeches and
limes； with here and there a light silver…stemmed birch—just the
sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs： you see their white
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sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs； or peeping from behind
the smooth…sweeping outline of a tall lime； you hear their soft
liquid laughter—but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye；
they vanish behind the silvery beeches； they make you believe that
their voice was only a running brooklet； perhaps they
metamorphose themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers
away and mocks you from the topmost bough。 It was not a grove
with measured grass or rolled gravel for you to tread upon； but
with narrow； hollow…shaped； earthy paths； edged with faint dashes
of delicate moss—paths which look as if they were made by the
free will of the trees and underwood； moving reverently aside to
look at the tall queen of the white…footed nymphs。
It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur
Donnithorne passed； under an avenue of limes and beeches。 It was
a still afternoon—the golden light was lingering languidly among
the upper boughs； only glancing down here and there on the
purple pathway and its edge of faintly sprinkled moss： an
afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold awful face behind a
hazy radiant veil； encloses us in warm downy wings； and poisons
us with violet…scented breath。 Arthur strolled along carelessly；
with a book under his arm； but not looking on the ground as
meditative men are apt to do； his eyes would fix themselves on the
distant bend in the road round which a little figure must surely
appear before long。 Ah！ There she comes。 First a bright patch of
colour； like a tropic bird among the boughs； then a tripping figure；
with a round hat on； and a small basket under her arm； then a
deep…blushing； almost frightened； but bright…smiling girl； making
her curtsy with a fluttered yet happy glance； as Arthur came up to
her。 If Arthur had had time to think at all； he would have thought
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it strange that he should feel fluttered too； be conscious of
blushing too—in fact； look and feel as foolish as if he had been
taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected。 Poor
things！ It was a pity they were not in that golden age of childhood
when they would have stood face to face； eyeing each other with
timid liking； then given each other a little butterfly kiss； and
toddled off to play together。 Arthur would have gone home to his
silk…curtained cot； and Hetty to her home…spun pillow； and both
would have slept without dreams； and to…morrow would have been
a life hardly conscious of a yesterday。
Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty’s side without giving
a reason。 They were alone together for the first time。 What an
overpowering presence that first privacy is！ He actually dared not
look at this little butter…maker for the first minute or two。 As for
Hetty； her feet rested on a cloud； and she was borne along by
warm zephyrs； she had forgotten her rose…coloured ribbons； she
was no more conscious of her limbs than if her childish soul had
passed into a water…lily； resting on a liquid bed and warmed by the
midsummer sun…beams。 It may seem a contradiction； but Arthur
gathered a certain carelessness and confidence from his timidity：
it was an entirely different state of mind from what he had
expected in such a meeting with Hetty； and full as he was of vague
feeling； there was room； in those moments of silence； for the
thought that his previous debates and scruples were needless。
“You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase；”
he said at last； looking down at Hetty； “it is so much prettier as
well as shorter than coming by either of the lodges。”
“Yes； sir；” Hetty answered； with a tremulous； almost
whispering voice。 She didn’t know one bit how to speak to a
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gentleman like Mr。 Arthur； and her very vanity made her more coy
of speech。
“Do you come every week to see Mrs。 Pomf