Felise moved more slowly in the ash-wood, listening to the rush of the water as it fell over the hatch of the pond. It rendered her thoughtful. Climbing up the embankment which held the water in, she sat down on the beam of the hatch. Behind her the water dropped in an arch, ten feet deep, into a gully nearly crossed by ferns, which perpetually nodded. The spray struck them and bent them down; they rose up and were struck down again; and so on all day and night.
Before her the pool stretched out, an acre or two, broad at this end and deep, and narrowing up to a point where the stream ran in. The wood came down close on three sides; on the fourth, at her left hand, was a narrow strip of sward. The boathouse, on the right, was in shadow, being overhung by beeches; all the rest of the mere in bright sunshine.
Felise put up her sunshade and listened to the rush of the cataract. Though it seemed to fill the ear, the notes of a blackbird in the wood were distinct above it; they pierced the diffused sound of the waterfall. A chaffinch perched close to her; there were some long-winged flies floating about; the finch darted out and took these almost from under her parasol.
She was thinking. She had been up to the downs, and had visited the beech-tree three times since. She looked for her mark cut in the bark, and found it had been completed. Someone had added the stroke which rendered it intelligible as an M. Who could have done that? Her first thought was that it was Martial; he had returned, seen what she had been doing, guessed, and finished it.
This was what had actually taken place; but first thoughts are not always accepted. If he had done it, then her secret was out. Could it be called a secret after that interview? Her cheeks burned; she had so desired he should know, yet now she supposed he did know, she recoiled. For a moment only, however. If he had guessed and had completed the letter, then she was only too glad.
But had he? He had tried so hard to get away from her. He did not take the least interest in her. Possibly he thought her bold—troublesomely bold; then he would not be likely to have returned to the spot where she had been a weariness to him. It must have been some shepherd lad whiling away the slow hours in the shadow of the beech who had carved the last stroke of the letter.
Yet she did not know. Heart said one thing: thought another. Heart said, “He did it; he is not quite indifferent to me; he has been here; he knows—he understands.” Thought said, “He is entirely indifferent; my face, my form does not please him; why should he come back? Oh no! this was the work of a shepherd lad.” Yet she did not know. But if he had returned once, perhaps he would come again; so she went to the place three times, waited for an hour or two, and saw nothing of him. Of course not; he did not care. He never gave her a thought.
Yet she did not know. He might have revisited the spot at some other time of the day. So the battledore and shuttlecock of argument and suggestion continued in her mind. But the fact was indisputable that she did not see him; nor did he call to see her.
If he really understood her—if he cared to understand her—surely he would have called. Though their families were not on visiting terms, a gentleman can generally make some pretence if he wishes to call. He had not been—he had not even ridden by, for she had been in the garden, and watching the road half the time. He did not want to come. Therefore it was not he who had completed the letter on the tree.
He did not care about her. She picked up a small stone and pitched it at a lazy trout idling at the surface of the still water. The fish shot away into the depths instantly; but her thoughts did not go away into oblivion.
He did not care for her. But he must care for her; she must make him care. It was impossible to influence him unless she could see him, speak to him, convey her heart to him, not only by words, but by those innumerable little ways which speak louder.
The weeks would lengthen into months, the months into years, and still perhaps he would not come; he would never care for her unless she could converse with him. Influence depends wholly on personal contact. No magic is known by which one person can attract another if outside the sphere of personal communication. Unseen, unspoken, how affect?
She began to feel the immeasurable weight of separation which has slowly ground so many weary hearts to the very dust of desolation.
She realized for the first time in her life the powerlessness of women. They cannot stir, they cannot move in the matters that concern them most dearly; they are helpless; at the mercy of the petty events called circumstance. If by any happy chance circumstance threw her into Martial’s society, in time he might love her. By chance only. How many years till that chance happened? Possibly enough it might never occur at all.
Time would go on. He would see fresh
