They had met thrice. Once in the previous autumn, when Felise was following the harriers on foot, for she ran as swiftly as Atalanta. They sat near each other at lunch. Once Barnard called upon Mr. Goring in the winter in reference to some formal business about the watercourse. The third time was on Ashpen Hill, just after sunrise. There had been no formal introduction, and there was nothing in these accidental meetings likely to lead to their meeting again.
The difficulty lay in the vacancy, as it were—the lack of anything to lay hold of. No slender thread existed by which communication could be effected. Without a doubt Felise would not have hesitated to have gone at once straight up to his halldoor; but then—oh, the cunning of woman!—she knew (their cunning comes without teaching) that to be too openly forward, especially if there were witnesses, as there would be, would probably defeat the object.
Still there was nothing she would not do if necessary. She must; she could not live without his society. But if possible it should be effected insidiously, so that the object might not be too immediately displayed.
Felise ran over several expedients in her mind as she sat on the beam of the hatch. Feigning an interest in some old book, and pretending to have heard that he possessed it, she could call and ask for the loan. Walking a long distance she could become faint and weary while passing, and beg to rest. She might trespass on the grounds and sketch till she was seen. Most likely someone’s curiosity would bring them out to talk to her.
There were some ladies at his house, cousins she believed, not very young; these might be useful if once spoken to. On the other hand, very likely they would detect her purpose, and set obstacles in her way. Or she could whip the stream for trout till she crossed his path as he went his rounds about his farm; he could hardly avoid coming to speak to her. Perhaps he would attend some of the public entertainments occasionally given in the town of Maasbury, a few miles distant. She could manage to leave the building at the same moment, and confront him in the doorway.
She must see him, and he must see her face. Perhaps if he saw it frequently, it might please him.
She went and knelt at the edge of the still pool, and looked over at her own reflection in the water. Felise made no affected secret to herself of her beauty; she knew that she had beauty, and did not conceal it from herself in any form of self-depreciation. She delighted in it; it pleased her intense, vigorous life to look at it. She enjoyed a sensuous repose while contemplating her face, or even her bare arms sometimes as she dressed her hair. She enjoyed herself.
Her eyelids drooped slightly, the expression of her eyes became softer, her lips parted in the very least; it was something like how she looked when love was throbbing in her veins—only not so vehement, because she was receiving instead of giving. Her own existence came back to her. The glow of youth and loveliness was reflected back into her mind.
How beautiful it must be to be beautiful! How delicious it is, even for the plainest of us, to sit before that which is beautiful, and sink into a semi-unconscious state of happiness! For it is happiness to gaze at that which is lovely, whether a living face or a pictured one.
What lovely faces some of the Italian painters have chosen for the Madonna! No theological persuasion is needed to induce us to gaze at her. Such beauty naturally creates a sense of delicate reverence; it delights and purifies at once. An evil thought is impossible before it; the heart, for the moment at least, becomes morally beautiful in correspondence with the pictured face.
Felise gazed down at herself in the still clear water, and enjoyed her own beauty. She loved herself for being beautiful. This was apart from thought of Martial; it was herself for herself; just as she joyed in her strength when she swam, in her swiftness when she ran. A sensuous and yet a delicate pleasure.
And Martial? It was a triumph to her to look at herself—he must see her face frequently; could he refuse to love?
But men vary in their standards of loveliness, and some do not apparently care for it at all. Differ as they may, however, unless perfectly indifferent, there are some whose beauty is so apart and distinct, that it must be acknowledged. Yet not necessarily loved.
If Martial admitted her beauty in time, would he even then love her? He might admire and turn away.
Still gazing at her face, Felise thought she discovered something more there than loveliness; she thought she saw the power to call forth passion in another’s breast. In that thought she dreamed in the midst of the day.
Of all time all that have lived have been covetous of possessing this power; see the legends which have been invented of charms, which concealed about the person rendered the wearer attractive; read the sorceries of ancient Rome; go across then to Scandinavia, and listen to the bugle whose sound drew the maidens to the player. Man and woman alike, so do not condemn woman.
Some failings are far more desirable than that which passes for virtue. This is one of them. Felise did desire to be loved; she acknowledged it to herself; she dreamed in the thought that perhaps she possessed the power—if only he could see her face frequently. If!
Rising from the water’s side she went on to the boathouse, and shut herself in the compartment prepared for dressing.
The idle trout were floating but just beneath the surface of the illumined pool. Now and then one would touch the surface with the tip of
