He was taking her in the wrong direction. Why? To reach the Red Lion he should have steered upstream. Far behind, chiseled out by the moonlight, the town stood sharp against the star-strewn sky—sagging roofs, twisted chimney-pots and tall spires. From its walls came the shouts of roisterers and the sound of discordant singing, which broke off abruptly, only to commence again more faintly.

She was inclined to be penitent. She was both annoyed and amused with herself for what she had done. On the spur of the moment she was always doing wild things like that to people she cared for—doing them that she might measure their love by her power to hurt them. She wondered whether he blamed her, and how long he would keep silent.

The river had become a pathway of ebony, inlaid with silver by the moonlight. Along its banks illuminations smoldered, scorching red wounds in the shadows. Here and there a candle flared, sank and died, like a heart which had broken itself with longing. Craft drifted like logs through the blackness. They seemed deserted, unpiloted; yet they bore with them the sense of lips that whispered against other lips and of hands that touched. “To-morrow!” everything seemed to say. “To-morrow! But there is still to-night.”

To-morrow lovers would have vanished. Faces, which in the past week one had learnt to recognize, about which one had built up fancies, would be seen no more. The haunting poignancy of parting was in the night, the memory of things exquisite and unlasting.

And Peter, he couldn’t understand what had happened to him. It seemed a dream from which he was waking; he wanted to sleep again and recapture the illusion. From the first he had recognized an atmosphere of danger in her presence. She was so foreign to his experience; it was scarcely likely that a friendship with her would lead to happiness. And yet he could not do without her. On those sunlit mornings aboard The Skylark, when he had opened his eyes to hear the river tapping, had looked out of his window to see the breeze whipping the water and the plumed trees nodding, there had been no rest in the day’s gladness till he had heard her tripping footsteps. She had crept into his blood. All past things were unremembered—past ambitions and past loyalties. Every beauty grouped itself about her. The grayness of her eyes drew his soul out. The soft, slurring notes of her voice were for him the finest music. Had he been offered the joy of one month with her, for which all the years of his life should be forfeit, he would willingly have accepted. The thought of marriage had already occurred to him. That he should be only nineteen was a tragedy. Would she wait for him? With no more than a week’s acquaintance by which to judge he knew that she would wait for no one. She was elusive—one moment a child, the next a woman. And she sat there gazing at him through the shadows, her hands folded meekly on her breast—a nunlike trick which she had learnt at the convent. It gave her an appearance of piety, which the red defiance of her mouth and gray challenge of her eyes negatived. She was the first woman he had loved. He loved her uncalculatingly, with his soul and body, as a man loves but once, when he is young.

They had passed The Skylark and were nearing the island. All the other boats were left behind. Her voice came to him throbbingly, like a harp fingered softly. “You’re disappointed in me. You’ll often be disappointed.”

He could not bear that she should blame herself. He drew in his paddle. “I’m not, only——”

“Only what? A man always says ‘only’ when he’s trying to deceive himself.”

“Only, why did you do it?”

She didn’t answer his question. How could she tell why? Because she was young; because she knew that she was pretty. “You looked splendid,” she said, “when you struck him.” And then she mentioned the one thing concerning which he, as a man, would have kept silent. “You kissed me, Peter.”

His blood quickened. Was she reproaching him or simply saying, “You love me; we’re alone together?” She was leaning forward now, looking away from him, her throat resting against the back of her hand. He crept toward her, knelt at her feet and pressed his lips against her dress.

Her eyes came back to him. “You’d better go away and forget me.”

He slipped his arm about her body, drawing her to him. “Do you want me to go away—to go out of your life forever?”

“No.” The word was whispered and slowly uttered. She touched him gently, patting his hand. “Peter, I’m not your sort. You know that.”

“But you are my sort, or else how could I feel—feel what I am feeling? You’ll learn to love me, Cherry.”

She took it without a tremor, this declaration which had cost him such effort. She shook her head. “The Faun Man tells Eve that every time they’re together. I wonder how many men have said it. Love comes in an instant. You can’t learn it.”

“But why not?”

She bent over him like a mother. Her mouth was rounded; no wonder they called her Cherry. She was adorable in compassion. “You don’t know me. I’m not at all what you think. Ask the Faun Man. Don’t you remember at the Happy Cottage? It wasn’t for breaking his pictures that he sent me to the convent.”

“But I’ll make you love me,” he insisted. “You don’t know what I’d do for you. I’d die for you, Cherry. There’s nothing about you that I don’t worship. You’re so long and sweet—and———” He laid his face against her cold, white cheek and caught his breath. She was like marble; he could feel no stir in her—and his every nerve was throbbing. “Don’t you like to be loved?”

She seemed to marvel at his passion, as if it were a thing which she did not understand, by which she was puzzled. Oddly, to his way of thinking, she showed no terror of him. Her eyes dwelt on him with clear and kindly interest. “Every girl likes to be loved. But that’s different. I don’t think you’ll ever teach me, Peter. And yet——. Hadn’t we better be getting back?”

“Oh, not yet.” He felt that he was going to lose her—lose her forever. Surely, surely he could rouse her to a sense of the poetry and drama which was burning in his blood. It was impossible that she should not feel it. She had been sleeping, as he had been sleeping, letting love go by with its banners and drums. “Oh, not yet,” he pleaded; “all these years we’ve lived—we’ve hardly ever been together.”

She broke the suspense by laughing. “What’s your favorite hymn, Peter?”

He was puzzled. “Haven’t got one. Never thought about it. What makes you ask?”

She wriggled her shoulders. “Because mine’s ‘Yield not to temptation.’”

He didn’t catch the significance of her remark. She saw that. “Still a little boy, aren’t you? A little boy of nineteen, who thinks he’s in love. There are heaps of other girls in the world.—Yes, I’ll come.”

He piled the cushions for her; then took the paddle and seated himself so he could face her. Their conversation was carried on by fits and starts, with long pauses.

“He was a beast.” She spoke reflectively.

“Who was?”

“Hardcastle.”

“But I thought—I was afraid you liked him.”

She trailed her hand in the black water, watching how it slipped through her fingers. “I did like him for the moment. That proves I’m not nice. Women often like men who are beasts.”

“But you don’t like him now?”

She teased him, keeping him waiting. “I’m glad you struck him.”

Presently she said, “Peter, I’ve been thinking, why can’t we have good times together? We could be friends and—nothing serious, but more than exactly friends. Lots of girls do it.”

Peter stopped paddling. “I should have to love you. I should be always hoping that——”

“Then it wouldn’t be fair to you,” she said.

He had been silent for some minutes. “Where did you learn so much about men? I know nothing about women.”

“Where did I learn?” she laughed. “Girls know without learning. Until to-night no man ever kissed me—not the way you kissed me. So you needn’t be jealous.”

The punt nosed its way among rushes and came to rest. He crouched against her feet, holding her hands, trembling at her nearness. The deep stillness of the night enfolded them. Reeds stood up tall on every side, shutting out the world. Above their heads a flock of fleecy clouds wandered, with unseen shepherds swinging stars for lanterns. The man in the moon looked out of his window with a tolerant smile on his mouth. She lay against the cushions, white and impassive, her long, fine throat stretched back.

“Peter,” she said, “look up there; those clouds, they don’t know where they’re going. Someone’s driving them from one world to another, like sheep to pasture. We’re like that; someone’s driving us—and we don’t know where we’re going.” And then, “You love me, with all your heart—yes, I believe that; and I—I love someone else. We each love someone who doesn’t care; and I have to let you do it—I, who know the pain of it. Poor Peter, what a pity God didn’t make us so that we could love each other.”

And again, “I don’t know any man in the world with whom I’d trust myself to do what we’re doing. Oh, I don’t want to hurt you, Peter. If ever I should hurt you, you’ll remember?”

He couldn’t speak—didn’t want to speak. He and she were awake and together, while all the world slept—that was sufficient.

How still it was! He could hear the soft intake of her breath and the rustle of her dress. “So this is love!” he kept saying to himself. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. It wasn’t a wild rush of words and an eager clutching of hands. It wasn’t an extravagance of actions and language. It was just tenderness. He unbent her fingers, marveling at their frailness. He pressed the palm of her hand against his mouth. He felt like a little child as he sat beside this silent girl.

Cherry lifted herself on the cushions. She gave him both her hands.

“What is it?”

She seemed afraid. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “When two people are married, is it always one who allows and one who loves? You don’t know; you can’t tell me. If both don’t love it must be terrible. I couldn’t bear only to give everything; and only to take everything, that would be worse. Oh, Peter, I have to tell you. It was like that with my mother. She couldn’t give everything to my father, and then—she found someone else. My father worshiped her—just as you’d worship me, Peter; when he knew that she was going away from him he—he kept her.” She covered her face. “He was hanged for it. And that’s why the Faun Man——. He was his friend. Oh, I’m afraid of myself; I almost wish we’d never met.”

He held her to him; she was shaken with sobbing. Suddenly he recalled how he had first seen her, rushing out of the Happy Cottage, with her brown-black hair tumbled about her white face and her gray eyes wide with tragedy. She was so wilful, and she so needed protection.

“Cherry, Cherry. Don’t be frightened. Don’t cry, dear. I love you. Nothing like that could ever happen to us.”

She stared at him. “Nothing like that could ever happen! I expect they said that.”

They! They! And was it they who had called her Cherry, because her lips were red?

Her eyes closed. Her lashes were wet; beneath them were shadows. He gazed on her, clasping her to him tenderly, as though she were a bewildered bird which had flown blindly into his breast. Her breath came softly. He thought her sleeping and kissed her mouth; her hand sought his and lay there trustingly.

What pictures he had of her! He saw her dancing before the flushed and foolish faces of those men; he saw her as he had met her on the bridge in her cool, blowy summer dress; he saw her in the Haunted Wood, where the little river ran, bidding him turn back. Because of what she had just told him, he felt that he had never loved her until now.

Like a counterpane tucking in the sleepy stars, the mist of dawn crept up. Near into the bank, behind the wall of rushes, a moor-hen was splashing. The countryside whispered with creature sounds. A bird was calling. How long had it been calling? An owl flew over his head, in haste to keep pace with the retreat of darkness. Along the east, above the spears of the reeds, a little redness spread. A thrush tried over a few staves. Before he had burst in song a perky blackbird was piping valiantly. The fields fluttered, as though a messenger ran through them, telling wild-flowers to raise their heads. The east smoldered higher; conflagration smoked sideways and upward. A door opened in a cloud; the sun stepped out. Like the unhurried crash of an orchestra the world shouted. It happened every morning while men slept. It was stupendous—appalling.

How white she was! He bent over her. Her eyes opened. She gave his arm a little hug. “Were you kissing me, Peter? You mustn’t, mustn’t love me like that.”

Ah, mustn’t! It was too late to forbid him. The insanity of the night was all forgotten; only its sweetness was left. From his window the man in the moon looked down; his mouth seemed to droop at the corners. He would watch for them next night, and they would not come. He might never know the end of their story. He was despondent; he had to go to bed.

Peter was chafing her hands.

“How good you are!”

“Not good. Only in love.”

And she, “I dreamt of you. We were in the Haunted Wood. My feet were bare, and——”

He held her eyes earnestly. “I wish I had been there. All these years it was the grayness of your eyes and—and something else that I remembered.”

“What else? No, tell me.”

“The whiteness of your feet,” he whispered.

Again they were in fairyland. Yellow as a topaz set in turquoise the sun stood free in the heavens. Inhabitants of the fearless morning went busily about their tasks. Clear as a mirror, through the perfumed stillness of meadows the river ran. Mists curled from ofif its surface and hung white in tree-tops. Within hand-stretch fish leapt; peering over the side of the punt, they could follow their retreat through waving weeds and black willow-stumps. Only a magpie noticed their passage and became interested, fluttering from bough to bough and asking them, “What d’you want? What d’you want?” Dragon-flies ventured forth as the sun’s heat strengthened; butterflies and the teeming insect world rose out of water-lilies and foxgloves—out of the destructible homes which Nature builds for their brief and perishable existence. He and she, drifting through the golden quiet with clasped hands, seized their moment unquestioningly, and were thankful for it.

Ahead they saw swans; then cattle wading knee-deep. Rounding a bend, they came in sight of a trellised garden, with green tables set out on a close-cut lawn. Boats swung idly in the stream, tethered to a landing. In the background was a thatched house, from whose chimney smoke waved back in a thin plume. When they came near enough they made out a white post, with a sign swinging from it. On the sign was depicted a brown bird, fluttering its wings in a golden cage; painted over it were the words, The Winged Thrush. In lifting their eyes to read the sign they caught sight of the faint moon, weakly smiling, as though saying, “I’ve got to go. They won’t let me stay. Goodbye, and good luck.”

They landed, leaving their foolish disguises in the punt. Through the dew-drenched wistfulness of summer roses they approached the inn, and entered. The room was strewn with sawdust, and stale with the smell of beer and tobacco. An ostler-like person, with a full-blown face and little blue pig’s eyes, met them. They asked for breakfast. He knew his business well enough to suggest that missie would prefer to have it in an arbor.

While they ate he hovered round them, continually inventing excuses to interrupt their privacy. He reminded them of the magpie in his frank display of curiosity. He informed them that trade was wery bad. He’d ‘arf a mind to try ‘is luck in Australy. If it weren’t for the young bloods from Henley, he’d ‘ardly take a ‘appeny from month to month. Did they know of anyone, an artist chap for h’instance, who’d like to combine pleasure with business by tryin’ his ‘and at runnin’ a nice pub? An artist chap could paint that bloomin’ bird out, and call the place The White Hart or somethin’ h’attractive. Whoever ‘eard of an inn payin’ which was called The Winged Thrush? People didn’t want their meals messed about by a bloomin’ poet. Not but what the sitiyation was so pleasant that he’d tried to write poetry ‘isself—love-poetry for the most part. His verses allaws came to ‘im when ‘e were groomin’ the ‘orses. If things didn’t brisk up, ‘e’d give Australy a chance, as ‘e’d many times promised.

At last he left them. Cherry gazed out dreamily across the river. “I wonder, is it true that one has always to pay with sorrow for happiness?”

Peter shivered. How old she could be when she chose to borrow other people’s disillusions! He tried to restore her to cheerfulness. “What a pagan notion! It’s the old idea of the gods being jealous. You shouldn’t think such thoughts.”

“But happiness does bring sorrow,” she insisted. “We shall have to pay for this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.”

Her voice trailed off, giving him a vision of all the tomorrows when he would be without her. And he wasn’t sure of her. She had told him that she didn’t love him. He drew her closer. “But a sorrow’s crown of sorrows is to have no happier things to remember—to be old and never to have been young, to be lonely and never to have been loved. You mournful little person, do you think you’d be any happier because you’d never known happiness?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders with a touch of defiance. “I’m not clever; I can’t argue.” Then, her face clearing as suddenly as it had clouded, “I can’t think why you like me, Peter.”

He laughed gladly. “And I can’t tell you, Cherry. It’s as though I’d waited for you always, without knowing for whom I was waiting. I was a kind of winged thrush in a golden cage; but you’ve opened the door, now you’ve come.” His explanation wasn’t sufficient. She snuggled her chin against the back of her hand and watched him seriously, as though she suspected him of hiding something. “But what is it that you like most about me?”

He tried to discover; he dug back into his own sensations. What was it that he liked most about her? For the life of him he couldn’t put it into language. Then he thought he might find out by examining the white face, with the red lips and tragic eyes, of the girl-woman who had asked the question. What an uncanny faculty she had for stillness! A sunbeam, falling from the leaves above, crept up her slender throat and nestled in her hair.

He shook his head. “It’s just you, Cherry. Your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way you try to be sad. It’s just you and your sweetness, Cherry. I think if I didn’t love you so much I could say it better.”

She stood up. “You poor boy, you’ve said it well enough. I wish I could feel like that.—And now we should be going.” They had stepped outside the arbor; they halted at the sound of voices. Coming round the bend was a scratch eight, the oars striking the water raggedly. The men were joking and laughing; the cox, a pipe hanging from his mouth, was urging them to spurt with humorous insults. Having landed, they tumbled into their sweaters and came strolling through the garden. They were discussing the previous night in careless voices.

“Did you hear about Hardcastle?—When he isn’t in training he’s always like that. Ugh! At six o’clock a hero—by midnight a swine you wouldn’t care to touch.”

The voices passed out of earshot.

Cherry turned to Peter, “And I let him touch me. I’d have known by instinct if I’d been nice. Oh, Peter, you mustn’t love me.”

When he attempted to kiss her she refused to allow it, saying, “I’m not your sort.”

Paddling back between flowering banks, where trees cast deep shadows and birds sang full-throatedly, she again became tender. “Life’s just a yesterday, Peter—a continual bidding good-bye and coming back from pleasures.”

Her sadness hurt him. She knew it; she told herself that it would always hurt him. He didn’t want ever to say good-bye to her. And she, she felt sure that their comradeship would be always finding a new ending.

“Cherry, darling,” he reproached her, “don’t go in search of unhappiness. Life’s a to-morrow as well as a yesterday; it’s full of splendid things—things which aren’t expected. We’ve all the to-morrows before us.”

She trailed her hand in the water, snatching at the lilies, as if by an effort so slight she could delay their progress and prolong the present. She didn’t lift her eyes when she whispered, “I was thinking of that—of all the to-morrows before us.”

Again her words brought a vision of the long road of future days, down which he would walk without her. There was nothing to be said. Surely she would learn to love him! Reluctantly he paddled forward to their place of parting.