He seemed to see her in
the midst of such obscurity, that he was like a clairvoyant, seeing
rather with the mind's eye than with ordinary sight. Yet he could see her
positively enough, whilst he kept his eye attentive. He felt, if he
looked away from her, in the thick, ugly falling dusk, he would lose her
altogether.
He followed her minutely as she moved, direct and intent, like something
transmitted rather than stirring in voluntary activity, straight down the
field towards the pond. There she stood on the bank for a moment. She
never raised her head. Then she waded slowly into the water.
He stood motionless as the small black figure walked slowly and
deliberately towards the centre of the pond, very slowly, gradually
moving deeper into the motionless water, and still moving forward as the
water got up to her breast. Then he could see her no more in the dusk of
the dead afternoon.
'There!' he exclaimed. 'Would you believe it?'
And he hastened straight down, running over the wet, soddened fields,
pushing through the hedges, down into the depression of callous wintry
obscurity. It took him several minutes to come to the pond. He stood on
the bank, breathing heavily. He could see nothing. His eyes seemed to
penetrate the dead water. Yes, perhaps that was the dark shadow of her
black clothing beneath the surface of the water.
He slowly ventured into the pond. The bottom was deep, soft clay, he sank
in, and the water clasped dead cold round his legs.
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