Arthur went on, hoping in the end to catch sight of Margaret, but he saw no one. In that grey, chilly day the woods, notwithstanding their greenery, were desolate and sad. A sombre mystery seemed to hang over them. At last he came to a stone bench at a cross-way among the trees, and, since it was the only resting-place he had seen, it struck him that Margaret might come there to sit down. He hid himself in the bracken. He had forgotten his watch and did not know how the time passed; he seemed to be there for hours.
But at length his heart gave a great beat against his ribs, for all at once, so silently that he had not heard her approach, Margaret came into view. She sat on the stone bench. For a moment he dared not move in case the sound frightened her. He could not tell how to make his presence known. But it was necessary to do something to attract her attention, and he could only hope that she would not cry out.
“Margaret,” he called softly.
She did not move, and he repeated her name more loudly. But still she made no sign that she had heard. He came forward and stood in front of her.
“Margaret.”
She looked at him quietly. He might have been someone she had never set eyes on, and yet from her composure she might have expected him to be standing there.
“Margaret, don’t you know me?”
“What do you want?” she answered placidly.
He was so taken aback that he did not know what to say. She kept gazing at him steadfastly. On a sudden her calmness vanished, and she sprang to her feet.
“Is it you really?” she cried, terribly agitated. “I thought it was only a shape that mimicked you.”