Some greenfinches came down to drink at the shallow edge, where there was a strip of sward. After they had sipped they departed up the valley over the wood, laughing in their gossip as they went. A dove flew up into a beech on the same side of the pool, but did not coo; he remained perched and observant. Several times a thrush brought food for her young who were hidden in the ferns and tall grasses by the sward, and each time returned without descending to them, as if there was a stoat lying in wait.
Among the grey-green bulrushes, farther up the pool where it contracted, the moorhen was now feeding again complacently, and two black little ones swam beside her. Under the shadow of willows by the shore, there the golden lamps of the yellow iris shone. Sunlight lit up the broad clear surface—so clear that the rays penetrated nearly to the bottom even in the deeper parts. Continually flowing, the roar of the cataract over the hatches rose like the excited sound of a multitude crying for the show to begin. A pleasant, soothing rush of splashing water; the very sound diminished the summer heat.
XI
Felise opened the door of the bathing-room, and stepped out upon the platform before it. She stood in the shadow of the beeches behind; all the rest of the pool was in bright light. Her bathing-tunic was blue, bordered with white, and fringed with gold—such a tunic as might have been worn by a Grecian maiden. It was loose about her shoulders, they were nearly bare; her arms quite so. In the shade the whiteness and purity of her skin was wonderfully beautiful. It gleamed in the cool shade, more so than the yellow iris flowers, though they had the advantage of bright colour.
The beauty of a perfect skin is so great, to gaze at it is happiness. The world holds no enjoyment like the view of beauty.
Her white feet were at the very edge of the dull boards, so that her reflection was complete in the water had anyone been looking from the opposite shore. She put up her hands to settle the strings of pearls in her hair, to make certain that they would not come loose. It was Felise’s fancy to wear her pearls—her only jewellery and dowry—when she bathed out of doors in the sunshine. She decked herself for the bath—the bath not only in water, but in the air and light—as if she had been going to a temple in the ancient times.
With her hands employed at the back of her head and arms raised, the contour of her form was accentuated. The deep broad chest, the bust, the hips, filled out. The action of lifting the arms in this manner opens the ribs, decreases the waist, slightly curves the back, and extends and develops every line. A sculptor should have chosen her in such an attitude.
In a moment, lifting her hands and joining them high above her head, she dived—the pearls glistened as she passed out of the shadow into the sunlight, and the water hid her completely.
The dove flew, startled from his branch in the beech; a swallow that had been coming to drink, as he flew, mounted again into the air.
She rose at some distance from the diving-platform, and immediately struck out slowly, swimming on her chest. Her chin was well out of water, and sometimes her neck; her chest held so large a volume of air that she was as buoyant as a waterbird. It needed no effort to keep afloat; all her strength was at liberty to be used in propulsion. Swimming towards the hatch, presently she turned and came back to the platform, then out again into the centre of the pool, where she floated, dived under, and floated again.
Gathering energy from practice and the touch of the water, she now swam on her side, following the margin of the pool all round, so as to have a larger course. Twice she went round without a pause—swimming her swiftest, equal, in a direct line, to several hundred yards. Still joying in the sunlight and the water, she continued again for the third circle. Her passage was even swifter, her vigour grew with the labour.
The water drew back the tunic from her right shoulder, which shone almost at the surface; her white right arm swept backwards, grasping the wave; her left arm was concealed, being under her, and deeper. It is the fastest, the easiest, and the most graceful mode of swimming. In the moment when her rounded right arm was sweeping backwards, clearly visible in the limpid water—just as the stroke was nearly completed—the sculptor might again have obtained an inspiration. For at that moment there was repose in action, the exertion of the stroke finishing, the form gliding easily, the left cheek resting as if reposing on the surface.
At the completion of the third round, Felise swam to the shallow grassy shore, where Shaw was now waiting for her.
“Oh, how you do panck!” (pant), said Shaw, laughing, as Felise walked up out of the water on to the turf, and sat down at the edge of the shadow of the beech. Her breast was heaving with the labour, her deep grey eyes shone as if enlarged; there was a slight increase of colour in her face. She was not in the least exhausted; she was exhilarated to the utmost. Shaw chatted