Patricia was in the orchard, and not only in the orchard, but of it, for she was comfortably perched on a low bough of an ancient hoary apple tree. She had a volume of Robert Bridges’s poems in her hand and a thirst was on her to be at the edge of a cliff and look over into blue space below. The secluded orchard with its early crown of pink blushes, the serene shut-in valley screened from cold winds and cradled between the chalky highlands, weighed on her. She looked upwards through the dainty tracery of soft green and pink to the sky above, delicately blue with white clouds racing over it. There was air up there, free and untrammelled. Patricia sighed and then laughed at herself, for it was good, even here in the narrow orchard, life with its coming possibilities, its increasing riches. She was glad to be alone at that moment if only to share a thought with the poet who at this period held sway over her mind.

The previous evening had been one of great moment to her and she was joyfully thankful to find that it obscured and clouded no particle of the daily simple joy of her existence. She had claimed this day to herself, free from all new issues to prove this point, and her heart sang with content for what had been, was, and would be.

The orchard gate clicked, and looking through the intervening boughs and leaflets, she saw Christopher coming across the grass towards her with his even, swinging step.

In her rough grey dress she was as part of the rough tree herself. Her golden head and the delicate 201 lovely colouring of her face rivalled the tree’s darling blossoms, so Christopher thought when he reached her. He came straight to her through the maze of old and young trees and had the exquisite joy of seeing her flush with surprise and pleasure at sight of him. Here indeed she felt was the one addition to her day that she needed. She did not descend from her perch, and it was his hand which steadied her there when excitement imperilled her throne.

“To come down on us without warning like this!” she expostulated, smiling down at him. “Why, we might have had no leisure to see you or luncheon to give you! When did you actually come?”

“Half an hour and five minutes ago. I’ve seen CÆsar and St. Michael, and I’ve had luncheon.”

“And have you come to stay?”

“I don’t know yet.” He leant his arm on the bough where she sat, which was of exactly convenient height.

“The amount of leisure you seem to have on hand,” said Patricia severely, “is outrageous, considering how hard the rest of the family work.”

“Especially Nevil,” laughed Christopher.

“Especially Nevil. We have not sat down to a meal with him for three weeks. He nearly walked on Max’s puppy last week and he has forgotten Charlotte’s existence except as a penwiper—she went in to him one morning with a message and came out with an ink smudge on her red dress—she said it was his pen—the dress is the same colour as the penwiper, so she may be right. He paid no attention to the message.”

“Well, at present, if you take the trouble to go into the Rosery you will find Nevil lying by the fountain catching goldfish with Max. I do not think he remembered I’d been away.”

“Oh, I am glad,” cried Patricia, clapping her hands; 202 “of course it’s very nice of him to be so clever and write so beautifully, but it’s much nicer when he’s just a dear silly thing—and catches goldfish. But tell me about yourself now. Are you well? And have you been working hard? Why aren’t you in Belgium, why have you come, and what are you going to do, and when are you going back?”

“Stop, I can’t keep more than five questions in my head at once and I’ve answered several of yours already. The first is trivial; you have eyes. I have been working as usual; it’s no use to explain how, you have no conception of work at all. I am not in Belgium because I am here in a better place. I am going to enjoy myself, I hope, and I shall go away when it pleases me.”

“Indeed, Your Highness. You have not explained why you came.”

“I think,” said Christopher, considering hard and speaking with slow deliberation, “I think, only it is so preposterously silly, that I came to see you, or perhaps it was CÆsar or Nevil if it were not Max.”

Patricia laughed deliciously and leant forward, making pretence to box his ears. Christopher shook the bough in revenge till she cried pax, and peace supervened.

“Since you have evidently no business of your own to see to,” she said severely, “it shall be my business to teach you to appreciate Robert Bridges.”

“I don’t like his name; who is he?” Christopher grumbled.

“He is a genius and you must sit at his feet and listen.”

“Isn’t it respectful to stand?”

She regarded him gravely with her head on one side. “True humility sits ill on you, I fear. You may stand if you take off your hat.”

He flung it on the grass obediently. 203

“The Cliff Edge.” “The Cliff Edge has a carpet ... of purple, gold, and green.”

She read the little poem all through, her sweet, appreciative voice making music of the lines already melodious. Christopher wondered if the writer ever knew how beautiful his words could be made.

“Is that not lovely?” she asked when she finished, leaning forward so that her hand and the book rested for a moment on his arm.

Christopher nodded without moving.

“It makes me thirsty for the sea,” she went on, “for sky, for space to move and breathe. Oh, Christopher, things here are either old or small. All the great and beautiful things are old, the glory of it, the house, the life, the very trees, old, old, old. And the rest is small, protected and shut in. I want to feel things that are young and free and great, as the sky and sea and the wind. I am thirsty sometimes to stand on the edge of the cliff and taste the free, free air from off the sea that has no one else’s thoughts in it. Do you understand that?—the longing for something that does not belong to any part, to any one?”

“Yes, I understand. I feel it too, sometimes.”

“I knew you did. You see, it’s because neither of us belong here—to Marden—really. Oh, I don’t mean it horridly. It’s the dearest place and they are all the dearest people; but the life, the big thought of it all, isn’t ours. Our people didn’t help make it.”

Christopher made no answer. He was idly flinging bits of bark into his hat. If he were but certain—oh, if he could but be certain she were right! He looked up at her at last.

There could be no room for the grey shadows of doubt any longer. She was right. He felt it as he looked and as the thought she suggested sank deeper into his mind. Was not he truly one with her in it? 204 He, too, had been conscious of a Life and History here at Marden not his own, that exacted no obligations from him, but rather silently insisted on the freedom. Such freedom, mated to hers, was the last great boon he asked of life that had already given him so much. Still he hesitated for very fear of losing the joy of the hour that would be his and hers for eternity when he sealed it with the passionate words in his heart.

“I know just what you mean,” he said, “it is no disloyalty to them to feel it—only loyalty to ourselves. As for the sea and all that, I will motor you down to Milford whenever you like.”

“Oh, Christopher!” She clasped her hands with joy like a child. “Have you brought the new motor? What is it like?”

“It’s a perfect love, Patricia. I drove it down from town to-day. Such a road, stones, ruts—and it behaved like an angel although weighted with an extra sixteen stone of colossal brutality—Peter Masters, Esquire, millionaire.”

“Oh, why on earth did you bring him down here?”

“He did not ask permission. He just came—wanted to see St. Michael. Don’t let’s talk about him. Let’s talk about ourselves. We are much more interesting.”

“Egoist!”

“Doesn’t the plural number cancel the egoism? But I really have something to tell you about myself. Two things, indeed, if you’ll kindly listen.”

“I will try to be polite. Proceed.” She ensconced herself comfortably against the trunk of the tree, folded her hands in her lap and smiled down at him under her half-shut lids. He also moved his position a very little so that he could see her better.

“First, then, Patricia, I have actually done something in Belgium. The roads of which I have dreamed 205 are not quite such fantastic fancies now as they were a year ago.”

She sat erect at once, alert and brimming over with interest.

“Oh, Christopher!”

“It is not done yet,” he went on slowly, “but it is on the way to be done. It means that all the roads here, and the roads all over the world, will one day be made easy to travel upon. It means that mud, dirt and noise will be evils of the past, and they will be roads that will last down the ages.” He stopped with a little catch in his breath and looked at her half ashamed, half pleadingly.

But Patricia was gazing past him through a gap in the trees at a white flinty road that struggled up to the distant downs. “Yes,” she said very softly, as if fearing to quench a vision she saw there, “yes, that is a great and a good thing, and like you.”

“Thank you,” he answered laughing—the spell of their mutual earnestness pressed him too sorely.

“Don’t laugh,” she returned swiftly with a frown; “it is not the goodness that’s like you. It’s a sort of strongness about it—something to hold on to for all time.” She stopped abruptly, looking at him gravely.

This time he did not laugh, but he put one hand on hers, and his was shaking.

“Christopher,” she said coaxingly, “will you really take me down to the sea when I like?”

“Whenever you like.”

“Then do it this afternoon. Now, at once,” she cried pleadingly, and seeing his face of amazement, added, “you promised, Christopher.”

“Of course. I’ll do it; but why not to-morrow, when we can have a long day?”

“Because—because to-day is all my own,” she said softly, “and to-morrow isn’t. Christopher, I did not mean to tell anyone to-day, but I must tell you, I am 206 going to marry Geoffry,”—she flushed rosy red, but he did not see it—“it was last night—he wanted to see Nevil at once, but I wouldn’t let him. I wanted this day to myself. It was nice of you to come and make it complete.”

His hand still held hers, but it was still and motionless now. She stroked it softly. Christopher drew it gently away.

“You ought to wish me happiness or something, ought you not?” she said.

“I do, Patricia,” he said, looking up at her.

He wanted to say more; self-preservation demanded it, and again demanded silence. Their voices seemed to him far away, speaking in some fairy orchard where he was not. He could barely hear them.

“You’ll pretend not to know anything about it till to-morrow, won’t you?” she pleaded. “Don’t spoil my day. It isn’t that it won’t be perfectly lovely to be engaged, but the past has been, lovely too, and I want to keep it a tiny bit longer. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll help you.”

If he could but keep to-day forever shut in his heart with her, though life crumbled to ruins about them! But the invincible hours were ranged against him, and would claim it their own.

“And you’ll take me to the sea?”

“Yes, if you come at once.”

She descended from her perch with his help. She did not know his hands felt numb and dead as he held and released her.

“You haven’t told me the second thing about yourself,” she remarked, brushing the bark and lichen from her dress.

“It will keep,” he said quietly.

And they went out of the orchard.