“Oh — well — tell me.”
“Like the calling of throstles and blackies, in the evening, frightening the pale little wood-anemones, till they run panting and swaying right up to our wall. Like the ringing of bluebells when the bees are at them; like Hippomenes, out-of-breath, laughing because he’d won.”
He kissed her with rapturous admiration.
“Marriage music, sir,” she added.
“What golden apples did I throw?” he asked lightly. “What!” she exclaimed, half mocking.
“This Atalanta,” he replied, looking lovingly upon her, “this Atalanta — I believe she just lagged at last on purpose.”
“You have it,” she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses. “It was you — the apples of your firm heels — the apples of your eyes — the apples Eve bit — that won me — hein!”
“That was it — you are clever, you are rare. And I’ve won, won the ripe apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists — they can’t stop me — and — and — all your roundness and warmness and softness — I’ve won you, Lettie.”
She nodded wickedly, saying:
“All those — those — yes.”
“All — she admits it — everything!”
“Oh! — but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?”
“Yes, and you gave it me.”
“Not yet. Everything though?”
“Every atom.”
“But — now you look —”
“Did I look aside?”
“With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels —”
“Oh, dear — a sloppy angel!”
“Well — don’t interrupt now — suppose I were one — like the ‘Blessed Damosel’.”
“With a warm bosom —!”
“Don’t be foolish, now — I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown beech leaves below thinking —”
“What are you driving at?”
“Would you be thinking — thoughts like prayers?”
“What on earth do you ask that for? Oh — I think I’d be cursing — eh?”
“No — saying fragrant prayers — that your thin soul might mount up —”
“Hang thin souls, Lettie! I’m not one of your souly sort. I can’t stand Pre-Raphaelities. You — You’re not a Burne-Jonesess — you’re an Albert Moore. I think there’s more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a prayer. I’ll pray with kisses.”
“And when you can’t?”
“I’ll wait till prayer-time again. By. Jove, I’d rather feel my arms full of you; I’d rather touch that red mouth — you grudger! — than sing hymns with you in any heaven.”
“I’m afraid you’ll never sing hymns with me in heaven.”
“Well — I have you here — yes, I have you now.”
“Our life is but a fading dawn?”
“Liar! — Well, you called me! Besides, I don’t care; ‘Carpe diem’, my rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace — I’ve forgotten him.”
“Then poor old Horace.”
“Ha! Ha! — Well, I shan’t forget you. What’s that queer look in your eyes?”
“What is it?”
“Nay — you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the bottom of you.”
“You can fathom the depth of a kiss —”
“I will — I will —”
After a while he asked:
“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”
“Oh, wait till Christmas — till I am twenty-one.”
“Nearly three months! Why on earth —”
“It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free choice then.”
“But three months!”
“I shall consider thee engaged — it doesn’t matter about other people.”
“I thought we should be married in three months.”
“Ah — married in haste — But what will your mother say?”
“Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”
“You will flutter brilliantly.”
“We will.”
“No — you’ll be the moth — I’ll paint your wings — gaudy feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or when you play dodge with a butterfly-net — away goes my part — you can’t fly — I— alas, poor me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth brushes his wings against a butterfly-net?”
“What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?”
“No — that I don’t.”
“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.”
“Narcissus, Narcissus! — Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter you? — Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments?”
“I can’t see anything — only feel you looking — you are laughing at me. — What have you behind there — what joke?”
“I— I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus — a sweet, beautiful youth.”
“Be serious — do.”
“It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I— I should —”
“What!”
“Be just like I am now — serious.”
He looked proudly, thinking she referred to the earnestness of her love.
In the wood the wind rumbled and roared hoarsely overhead, but not a breath stirred among the saddened bracken. An occasional raindrop was shaken out of the trees; I slipped on the wet paths. Black bars striped the grey tree-trunks, where water had trickled down; the bracken was overthrown, its yellow ranks broken. I slid down the steep path to the gate, out of the wood.
Armies of cloud marched in rank across the sky, heavily laden, almost brushing the gorse on the common. The wind was cold and disheartening. The ground sobbed at every step. The brook was full, swirling along, hurrying, talking to itself, in absorbed intent tones. The clouds darkened; I felt the rain. Careless of the mud, I ran, and burst into the farm kitchen.
The children were painting, and they immediately claimed my help.
“Emily — and George — are in the front room,” said the mother quietly, for it was Sunday afternoon. I satisfied the little ones; I said a few words to the mother, and sat down to take off my clogs.
In the parlour, the father, big and comfortable, was sleeping in an arm-chair. Emily was writing at the table — she hurriedly hid her papers when I entered. George was sitting by the fire, reading. He looked up as I entered, and I loved him when he looked