The Woman Who Did (Feminist Classic). Allen Grant. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Allen Grant
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
Год издания: 0
isbn: 4064066051938
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       Grant Allen

      The Woman Who Did

      (Feminist Classic)

      Published by

      Books

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       [email protected]

      2019 OK Publishing

      EAN 4064066051938

      Table of Contents

       Preface

       Chapter I

       Chapter II

       Chapter III

       Chapter IV

       Chapter V

       Chapter VI

       Chapter VII

       Chapter VIII

       Chapter IX

       Chapter X

       Chapter XI

       Chapter XII

       Chapter XIII

       Chapter XIV

       Chapter XV

       Chapter XVI

       Chapter XVII

       Chapter XVIII

       Chapter XIX

       Chapter XX

       Chapter XXI

       Chapter XXII

       Chapter XXIII

       Chapter XXIV

      TO MY DEAR WIFE

       TO WHOM I HAVE DEDICATED

       MY TWENTY HAPPIEST YEARS

       I DEDICATE ALSO

       THIS BRIEF MEMORIAL

       OF A LESS FORTUNATE LOVE

      WRITTEN AT PERUGIA

       SPRING 1893

       FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE

       WHOLLY AND SOLELY TO SATISFY

       MY OWN TASTE

       AND MY OWN CONSCIENCE

      Preface

       Table of Contents

      “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.”

      Chapter I

       Table of Contents

      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 neighbour 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 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