The road opened upon a semicircular green plane, levelled among the hills, as it were on purpose, and planted round with a sheltering bulwark of trees—lime, chestnut, oak—rising higher and higher, until at the summit, where the sea-breeze caught them, grew nothing but the perpetual Dorsetshire fir. On the edge of the semicircle stood the house, this green plane before it, behind, a wide stretch of country, where the tide, running for miles inland, made strange-shaped lakes and broad rivers, spread out glistening in the afternoon sun.
“Anne, must always be near the sea. I don't think she would live even here unless she knew that just climbing those rocks would bring her in sight of the Channel. She has quite an ocean-mania.”
“I'll learn it from her. I want a convenient little mania. Suppose I cure myself of my old grudge against the sea, and go from hatred into love, or from love back again into hatred—as people do.”
“What a comical girl you are!”
“Very. Stay now. Wait till the horse is quiet, and I'll take a leap down—just like a person leaping into”—
“Hold, Agatha”—and she felt her arm caught by her husband. It was the first time he had touched or addressed her since they left Kingcombe. “Don't spring down—it is not safe. Stay till I lift you.”
“I do not want your help.”
“Excuse me, you do; you are not used to this sort of carriage.'
“Stand aside—I will jump down,” she cried, roused by the contest, slight as it was, but enough to show the clashing of the two wills. “Stand aside,” she repeated, leaning forward with glittering eyes, giddy, and in so great confusion of mind as to be in real danger—“we will see who gives way.”
“Are you in earnest?” Nathanael whispered.