Felise instinctively glanced all round her; she looked at the wood; at the path down the embankment; the nodding ferns; at the beeches far up on the summit each side; across at the willow-grown streamlet. She felt suddenly alone. She was by herself, not merely in the physical sense of no other person being near, but alone morally. Recognising that she could not command the society she desired, forced her to feel absolutely solitary. A crowd would have made no difference, she would have felt the same.
She could wait? Yes, like “Mariana in the moated grange,” in the sunshine, in the evening, in the morning, still with the same burden on her lips, “He cometh not.”
Hundreds, shall we not say rather thousands, do so wait. I saw a face, a woman’s face, at a window today, as I was strolling past a residence the style of which betokened wealth. Upon that face waiting had set its seal unmistakably. She was waiting—she had been waiting years. No end to waiting. Such faces are common enough. Woman’s life seems to be nothing but waiting, sometimes.
She had unconsciously placed her elbow on her knee, and leant her face on her hand; the very thought of waiting bowed her down into an attitude of pensive regret.
How bitter it is to be a woman sometimes! On the other hand, no one triumphs like a woman when she does triumph. Caesar’s spoils and car rolling through applauding Rome, are but gewgaws to the triumph of a woman.
IX
The very thought of the waiting depressed her; as if a darkness had fallen on her heart in the midst of the sunshine. Her gloom had increased till it verged on anger—the two are near together; gloom and anger are like twins. She grew angry, she knew not with what, and stood up. The blackbird who had been singing uttered a loud ching-ching, as if alarmed at her change of attitude; a moorhen at the other end of the little lake scuttled into the bulrush-flags.
She stood up in the sunshine, lowering her sunshade, drawn to her full height, her features set, a slight flush on her cheeks. A silent and unchangeable resolve had been forming in her mind. She would, she must, she would have him with her. If he did not love her—if he could not love her—there was the end. But he should be in her society; he should feel her presence; he should see the meaning in her eyes; if she had any beauty he should come within reach of its power. He should talk with her, sit by her, do as she was doing; not once, or now and then—continually, till by degrees his heart warmed, if it could warm towards her.
The forms of society were nothing to her—she had already broken them. What the world said did not trouble her. She was reckless, ready for the most violent effort. She did not care; she would. She did not stamp her foot, the resolve was too deep to require a tangible emphasis; there was no fear of its vanishing.
Her features resumed their natural expression, her attitude became easy, but her cheeks grew hotter. Though she looked straight in front she saw nothing. Her whole consciousness was rapt in resolution.
It lasted a moment, and then the question arose, How?
Immediately she raised her sunshade, and sat down again. It is curious that when we act, we stand; when we think, we sit. The difference is discernible in actors on the stage: so long as they address each other standing, the play is followed with interest; the moment they sit down, though the dialogue be ever so brilliant, people take up their opera-glasses and look round them.
Stage-players should always stand—it lends a force to the smallest incident. To lie down is more effective than to sit, it is next to standing; as, for example, the power Sarah Bernhardt exercises extended on a sofa—not a chair.
Felise thought and sat down. She asked herself, How could this be accomplished? She thrust away from her mind the contemplation of the powerlessness of women, and concentrated her ideas upon the way it could be done. She would not submit; she would not wait, to the burden of “He cometh not.” She would force circumstances to her will, and mould her fate in her hands. The precipice was perpendicular, yet she would scale it. It was natural for a woman to attempt the impossible.
All the strength of her limbs seemed to support her resolution. Should she who could race up the steep hillside, who could swim, not only in this level lake, but in the swelling sea, who could run apace with the hounds—should she tamely stand by and see her prize fall to another winner in life’s battle?
The strong limbs, the deep chest, the intense sense of life within her, urged her to the effort, and promised success.
Her face would never be seen at a window as the face I observed. Her nature was too strong, too vehement; if she failed, she would be utterly broken; if she failed, the end would come quickly. She could not live without her love.
Some dim presentiment of this perhaps passed through her mind, for a tear came into her eyes. If he could not love her when she had gained her immediate object, what then? Of that possibility she dared not think.
The question was, How? How obtain access to him—how bring him into her society? Not for once, or twice, but day by day. To be with him hour after hour; her heart beat faster at the idea of it. To look into his face; to hear his voice; to come to understand his thoughts; to
