Is she sure he has not? No. But she soon will be.
With this determination, she again faces towards the tree; once more inserts her slender fingers; plunges in her white hand up to the wrist—to the elbow; gropes the cavity all round; then draws out again, this time with an exclamation which tells of something more than disappointment. It is discontent—almost anger. So too a speech succeeding, thus:—
“He might at least have let me know, whether he was coming or not—a word to say, I might expect him. He should have been here before me. It’s the hour—past it!”
She is not certain—only guessing. She may be mistaken about the time—perhaps wronging the man. She draws the watch from her waistbelt, and holds the dial up. By the moon, just risen, she can read it. Reflecting the rays, the watch crystal, the gold rings on her fingers, and the jewels gleam joyfully. But there is no joy on her countenance. On the contrary, a mixed expression of sadness and chagrin. For the hands indicate ten minutes after the hour of appointment.
There can be no mistake about the time—she herself fixed it. And none in the timepiece. Her watch is not a cheap one. No fabric of Germany, or Geneva; no pedlar’s thing from Yankeeland, which as a Southron she would despise; but an article of solid English manufacture, sun-sure, like the machine-made watches of “Streeter.”
In confidence she consults it; saying vexatiously:
“Ten minutes after, and he not here! No answer to my note! He must have received it: Surely Jule put it into the tree? Who but he could have taken it out? Oh, this is cruel! He comes not—I shall go home.”
The cloak is once more closed, the hood drawn over her head. Still she lingers—lingers, and listens.
No footstep—no sound to break the solemn stillness—only the chirrup of tree-crickets, and the shrieking of owls.
She takes a last look at the dial, sadly, despairingly. The hands indicate full fifteen minutes after the hour she had named—going on to twenty.