Martelli was in the library when I entered. He sat deep in an arm-chair, his legs crossed, his face hid behind a folio.

"I have seen my apparition," said I cheerfully.

"I guessed so by the time you were absent," he answered, looking at the clock.

"I hope my resolute behaviour vindicates my courage, or at least excuses my former fears."

"You have renewed the pretty ancient legend, and have changed your shape of marble into a breathing woman. It certainly shows some hardihood and much tact to have penetrated into her presence. She seems, by your account, to have taken the white veil of solitude, and is dead to all the world."

"After an interview with a beautiful woman," I cried effusively, looking round upon the bookshelves, "how flat, stale, weary, and unprofitable appears everything else! The dead are all very well in their way—nil nisi bonum—but there is something in the large black eye of a woman—a divinity, a power, an inspiration—that makes poetry, philosophy and the fine arts very second-rate, somehow."

"No, Sir; the rate is not changed; it is a only temporary eclipse—a shadow dimming a light."

"Well," said I, "for my part, I adore black eyes; I refer particularly to Mrs. Fraser's. If I were called upon to name the most harmonious contrast in the world, I should say black eyes and yellow hair. Oh! she is the loveliest, the most fascinating, the wildest, sweetest, strangest woman in the wide world!"

"Your interview has been satisfactory, I presume?" he remarked drily. "She must have been prepared for your visit and met you with the most polished and facile of her arts.

"There was nothing polished or facile about her. On the contrary, she was rude."

"Indeed!"

"Yes—what would be called rude were I to write it down. But you know I am a bit of a gourmand and relish pungent condiments. Her manner is indeed the only sauce piquante that would suit her beauty."

"'We forgive in proportion as we love,' says Rochefoucauld, a man of the world."

"There is nothing to forgive—but there is much to love. There is a shrewd sweetness about her that took me mightily. Solitude has made her primitive. Had Byron met her we should have had a poem on the beautiful savage, with her coy and mutinous manners, with the light of golden sands upon her hair and the shine of torrid suns upon her eyes. Hear me now, Martelli, and marvel!" I continued, striking a heroic attitude. "When she speaks she looks like liberty incarnate; there is freedom in her royal gestures; pliancy and power in her step; her exquisite form undulates to her thoughts like the shadow of a dryad seen in a breezy pool!"

"This, Sir, is love. Your language has about it the poetic ambiguity that no other passion would dictate."

"It is love! I avow it. I am in love with this woman."

"I think I can understand you, Sir. You have cultivated this emotion for the purpose of utilising it. You are giving it full licence that you may properly observe its operation. When fully developed, you will anatomise it, study its conformation, and having enlarged your knowledge of human nature by the examination, bury the corpse of the passion as the doctors bury the subjects they have dissected."

"No, this is not my intention," I answered, laughing heartily; "emotion is too valuable to be wasted in the pursuit of knowledge."

"Pardon me, Sir, but—do you propose to marry her?"

"If she will have me."

"She is to be congratulated on her beauty. It must be of a rare and powerful kind to strike love at one blow into a heart which I thought was surfeited with this sort of thing."

"Her beauty is rare and powerful too."

"It must be, to achieve such a victory over the experience that had driven you into the cool and calm dominion of intellectual love."

"Can I not occupy both dominions? Must intellect be denied me because I fall in love?" I asked, attributing the sarcastic emphasis of his language to a fear that my marriage would lose him his situation.

"I think not," he answered. "My experience of knowledge is, that it is a jealous god. Surely, Sir, your resolution is abrupt! You have declared your intention only to excite my wonder!"

"On the contrary, I am quite sincere when I tell you that I am head over heels in love with this woman, and that I would marry her to-morrow if I thought she would accept me."

He rose, went to the window, stared out for some moments, and then approached me.

"If I understood you aright, Mr. Thorburn, your object in residing here was to enable you to lay in such a stock of knowledge as would enable you to contest for fame with a good promise of success?"

I nodded.

"You even went, Sir, to the expense of furnishing this house, that you might burden yourself with obligations which should not be got rid of without inconvenience and loss."

"True."

"That you did, that your resolution, should it grow impaired by fatigue or caprice, would still be hampered with difficulties enough to make its decay slow or even impossible."

"Well?" said I, wondering at his solemnity and long preamble.

"Is it possible, Sir, I ask respectfully, that you will abandon your large and dignified enterprise for a lady of whom you know nothing?"

"You only make me sensible of the capriciousness of my character," I answered, laughing; "but you could not shake the love this lady has inspired."

"Sir," he said courteously, "nothing would justify the freedom of my language but the knowledge that one of the duties you desired me to discharge, was to stimulate your energies when I found them flagging. But as you have determined to alter your views, I shall of course consider those duties at an end."

"Why?" I asked. "What avenues in life would be closed to me as a married man that are opened to me as a bachelor? A man is not bound to be idle, is not prohibited from meditating as ambitiously as he chooses, because he gives his name to a woman."

"I do not say, Sir, that you may not recur hereafter to your schemes; but you may reckon on being very indisposed for study for a good time now. This lady will occupy your thoughts to the exclusion of all things else, before marriage and for long after. Love-making is an absorbing occupation. To a poor man it may be a stimulus, for he may have to work in order to wed; but to a rich man it is usually a soporific."

"My good friend," I exclaimed, "you speak as though my marriage were a fixed matter. Let us look at the truth. I am in love with this lady, it is true—but she is not in love with me. I may have to be importunate to procure her consent—should she ever vouchsafe her consent, which, between you and me, I have no earthly reason to suppose likely; and importunities, to be successful, must be often delayed and never vehement. I should regret your leaving me; and should regret it the more if you resolve to go before my future takes a more definite character. My wishes will of course impel me to bring this love of mine to an issue as speedily as she will let me; but I really like your company too well to wish you to regulate your conduct by a contingency which, I fear, may prove the reverse of inevitable."

He paced the room, eyeing me from time to time with a gaze uncertain and agitated. His brow was clouded.

"I am very grateful to you for your kindness to me," he said, "and I will avail myself of it to think a little before I decide. I shall be selfish enough to hope that your marriage will not happen. We have been going on well—very well. It would be a pity that this pleasant life should be disturbed. I am much obliged to you for your courtesy," he repeated, "and you are very kind to have listened to my plain-speaking so good-naturedly."

To this I made some reply, and the subject dropped.

"Here," thought I, "is an illustration of the genuine southern character: the warm and sudden humours; the irritable pets and fumes; the querulous misgivings; the effusive gratitude; the morbid distrust. Here too, is a living example of the penalty of thought. The brain of this smart little man has been playing so long and so remorselessly on his nerves, that they have at last grown unfit for use. Coffee and tobacco, too, have done their part, and have converted this sallow being into a bundle of shuddering sensibilities. Because I talk of being in love, because I dare to dream of marrying, he believes that I wish him to be gone. He transforms my hopes into hints; and fearful, perhaps, of a direct dismissal which would convulse his dignity with mortification, and leave his nerves flabby and toneless for ever, he bids me understand that he considers his duties at an end. But he'll get over this pique. Those keen eyes, that pungent tongue, are the harbingers of no silly spirit. He will contrast this house with his attic in Berners Street, this sweet air with the yellow element of London, his meagre meals with his present bountiful repasts, and will discover no urgent necessity to depart. For myself, I doubt if I could better him. Use has fathered one or two angularities, and I find him now not only agreeable, but necessary."

But, to be candid, these thoughts did not long trouble me. I had my beautiful neighbour to muse on, and she was an inspiration that fully filled my mind.

Three days passed before I saw her again.

Martelli had gone to Cliffegate for a walk: I amused myself in the garden. The grounds were now in complete order. In the front the fountain had been repaired and redecorated, and now tossed its pearl-shower in the sun, circling the cool and brimming basin with a rainbow. In the back, the trees hung heavy with fruit. The beds were draped with flowers. The lawn, shorn and trimmed to velvet smoothness, offered a pleasant relief to the eye.

I strolled to the end of the grounds and inspected the brilliant coup d'oeil. My thoughts went further than I: I wished I could have followed them!

"She who loves flowers so well, what would she think of this brilliant show? Were I to ask her to come and see my grounds, would she come?"

At that moment I heard her voice calling to the servant from the garden. An idea struck me. I pushed open the gate and entered the fields. Through the gate of her own garden I could see her. She was raking a bed of geraniums. Her fair face was shadowed by a hat, broad-brimmed and high-crowned; inelegant it would have looked on many a woman; but the most fastidious taste would have been ravished by its becoming elegance on her. The skirt of her dress, pinned up, disclosed a foot matchless in its turn and shape. What grace was in the movement of her arms! how delicate the outline of her inclined form! A long curl of gold had slipped from the blue ribbon that bound her hair and reposed like a sunbeam on her back. I stood watching her with all my soul in my gaze. A lark rose shrilling from the fields, and soared, pouring its throat in a strain chastened by the nimble air. She drew herself erect, and protecting her eyes, sought the bird in the blue. Her full and shapely form, her black and luminous eyes, shaded by her hand of snow, her yellow hair, her looped skirt, her firm small feet, made, as she stood among the flowers, such a picture of colour, beauty, and sunshine as I must never hope to see again.

I drew to the gate.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Fraser," I said gently.

She started, and seeing me, stared without speaking.

"I hope I have not alarmed you," I said, observing the startled expression of her eyes to brighten with a sudden angry light: "I was attracted by the sound of your voice, and would not miss this chance of seeing you."

She let fall the rake and came to the gate.

"How long have you been there?" she asked.

"Some minutes," I replied.

"Watching! watching! Mr. Thorburn, I am sorry you ever took Elmore Court. Before you came, my privacy here was as sacred as though this garden had been cloisters."

"Have I violated it?"

"Of course you have. Have you not been watching me?"

"I must offer you no apology. If I desire to win your approbation, I must not cloud or varnish my meaning."

"It would not be worth while."

"So I will admit that I came here not only with the intention of seeing, but of speaking to you. Now is my crime very grave?"

"Are you beginning to feel dull?" she asked, eyeing me with embarrassing earnestness. "Are your beginning to grow weary of books and thoughts, and to discover that the most tiresome and indiscreet companion a man can choose is himself? If so, why do you not return to London? You must have the means to purchase the distractions which are called pleasures."

"Indeed"—I began.

"Or," she went on with odd imperturbability, "if you can't conveniently leave Elmore Court, there are, I believe, people here whom you might easily get to know. Why me, Mr. Thorburn? why me?" she exclaimed, with a little stamp of her foot.

"Who are the people, Mrs. Fraser?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said wearily, "I have never inquired. I have shunned them always. Some of them called. I have their cards by me somewhere. But I never returned their visits."

"And I have some of their cards by me too; and I have never returned their calls. Such society as they offer does not suit me. Besides, I didn't come here for society."

"But you seek mine."

"I cannot help it," I said.

She left the gate. I thought she was going away. She picked a flower—a white rose, half budded—and brought it me.

"This is of my own planting," said she, applying the pearly petals to her delicate nostrils: "all the flowers that you see here are of my own planting."

"That bud should symbolise your life, Mrs. Fraser."

She opened wide her eyes.

"Why?" she asked.

"It is unfolding its beauty and sweetness to other eyes than its own. So should you."

She flung it from her. Her under lip pouted as though she were about to cry.

"If I had thought that flower would have provoked so silly a remark, I would not have picked it," she said.

She retired a step. Fearful that I had offended and that she would leave me, I said boldly, "I wish you would allow me to see your flowers. I may learn some hints for my own garden from yours. I faithfully promise not to be poetical again."

"You may come in," she answered, curving her mouth into a childish smile; "Shall I open the gate?"

"Thank you, I can open it."

I entered.

"Please don't notice anything from where you stand," she exclaimed, picking up the rake; "come with me to those steps. My flowers look best from there."

She stepped forward with a light bounding gait. I could observe nothing but her exquisite shape, her yellow hair and alabaster neck. I think, had I held a pair of scissors, that not thrice the number of sylphs and gnomes which protected the perfumed locks of the matchless Belinda could have prevented me from ravishing the amber curl that floated on her back.

She stood on the steps of the door.

"There," cried she, looking up at me with the prettiest smile in the world, "now you will see that all the tints are meant to blend. The roses are not blown yet; but you can guess how pretty they will look next to that bed of lilies. My garden will be a rainbow of colours next month. All the hues meet and melt into one another—from that bed down there to the hedge."

"Beautiful!" I murmured, thinking of her eyes.

"If it were not for my flowers," said she, with a sudden gravity, which did not surprise me, for I was prepared now for any change of mood in this capricious, strange and fascinating woman, "I think I should go mad. You can't tell how I hate the winter. I lie listening to the complaining winds until they become human shapes craving admittance and shelter from the piercing cold. There is a winter's wind that blows here with a strange cry!... Do you think the winds spirits? I do sometimes, Mr. Thorburn; nothing else, you see, sobs and cries like they do. But who would not scream to be pierced through and through with hail, wrapped in the burning lightning, and shattered by the hateful thunder?"

She paused, lifting her luminous eyes to me. "You have read a good deal," said she, "and will know more than I. Do, please, tell me what spirits do in winter, when the air is so frozen it cannot blow, and when the stars have gone out under the clouds."

"I assure you," I said, puzzling myself to reconcile her language with her eyes, which seemed to me brilliant with intelligence, "I have never studied these matters. I know nothing of them. They are idle speculations, and you should not indulge in them. They will make your solitude very oppressive."

"They make my solitude more than oppressive at times. But if the winds are tormented spirits, those flowers are good angels. They give me as much pleasure as the winds give me pain. All those flowers have souls. I am quite sure of that. But it is not pleasant to think, for I fear one morning I shall find them all dead through their souls having taken wing."

She pushed some transparent hairs behind her ear.

"I wish, Mrs. Fraser," I said, "you would do me the favour to inspect my garden. I employ two gardeners; but the three of us do not approach you in the delicacy of your taste."

"When do you want me to come?"

"Now, if you will."

"Not now. I must have time to consider. I hardly ever leave my house, and then only for a short walk. And did not I tell you that I visit no one?"

"But you will oblige me in this?"

"I am not sure. You have no claims on me that I should favour you more than any one else. I will think over it, and tell you to-morrow. Will you come to watch me again at the gate?"

"If I may?"

"Oh, you may. The fields are not mine; and I have no right to forbid trespassers."

"I will come to the gate at the hour I met you to-day."

"Yes."

"And you will accompany me over my grounds."

"I shall see. Now I must go in."

She held out her hand, I took and retained it.

"Before I leave you, Mrs. Fraser, will you tell me that my society is not distasteful—that you no longer look upon me as an intruder?"

She did not offer to withdraw her hand. It seemed to me, indeed, that she hardly knew I held it.

"No. I am disposed to like you," she replied. "You weren't frank at first; but you have become frank since, and that makes you a pleasant companion. Oh! you will never know my abhorrence of the cant which politeness makes men and women talk. They treat each other like cats—stroke, and stroke, until truth is lost in a general purring. I like truthful people. They need not be insulting: they can always keep back unpleasant knowledge; but they need not lie. Polite people must lie."

I would not argue. It pleased me better to watch the varying expressions of her beautiful face, the soft curvings of her lips, the graceful gestures of her hands, than to contradict.

"Good-bye," she said.

"Until to-morrow," I answered.

Near the gate I halted to pick up the rose-bud she had thrown from her, and pressed it to my lips. Peeping furtively toward the house, I saw she watched me from the window.