THE WOMAN WHO DID by Grant Allen 1895 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 “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 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 CHAPTER 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 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.”