Chapter 1 - Page 2

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; very free and
advanced; a perfect firebrand. In fact, my dear child, I don't
know which of you makes my hair stand on end most." And with that
introductory hint, she left the pair forthwith to their own
devices.

Mrs. Dewsbury was right. It took those two but little time to feel
quite at home with one another. Built of similar mould, each
seemed instinctively to grasp what each was aiming at. Two or
three turns pacing up and down the lawn, two or three steps along
the box-covered path at the side, and they read one another
perfectly. For he was true man, and she was real woman.

"Then you were at Girton?" Alan asked, as he paused with one hand
on the rustic seat that looks up towards Leith Hill, and