Chapter 1

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