Chapter 5

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