I had a sudden vision of Grace writing, her golden head bent, seeing in
the missive and Walter Markham's presence in England the chance of
freedom for herself and Cheneston; believing Cheneston loved her and I
loved Walter Markham; believing that our engagement was just an
emotional mistake, never guessing it wasn't an engagement at all!
A great many engagements are emotional mistakes. Why not ours?
Cheneston came out of the door on the right, I suppose it was his study.
He held a letter in his hand. He was in khaki again, and he looked ill
and worried.
"Good-morning," I said. I noticed he had his Burberry over his arm, and
his service cap and a small dispatch case under his arm.
"You've heard?" he said.
"What?" I said stupidly, and my heart began to beat very rapidly.
"That Markham is in England--wounded. Oh! Pam--you shan't suffer,
because you've been so splendid and wonderful. You ought to be with
him; but he'll spare you, and understand when he knows."
"Where are you going?" I said desperately.
"Up to Lynn Lytton to tell him I understand that you care for each
other, that you've told me all about it, and that we're not engaged to
each other. To tell him how absolutely superb you've been, and why
you're here. My God! Pam, do you think I'd ever forgive myself if I
mucked up your life, dear!"
*IX*
"You--you mustn't go to Walter," I pleaded desperately. "I--I want to
go myself."
I had one thought; it was so vivid that it seemed like something dressed
in scarlet floating on a grey sea of little thoughts and fears all
inextricably mixed--it was that I must get to Walter Markham first and
_explain_.
"Pam," Cheneston said gravely, "are you afraid of my being clumsy and
not making things clear to him?"
I nodded. I couldn't speak. The idea of Cheneston being clumsy,
Cheneston with his fine, fierce, almost uncanny insight into things, had
me by the throat.
"I see," Cheneston said slowly. "Little Pam, I hate to think I have
made you afraid for your happiness even for one minute. You are so
worthy of happiness--so absolutely great! He'll understand, dear, how
simply priceless you've been to--come here. He's bound to understand."
He looked down at me with fierce anxiety in his hazel eyes, he seemed
desperately questioning his own belief in Walter Markham's
broad-mindedness.
"I'll make him understand," I said. "Don't worry, I'll make him
understand."
A sudden flood of fierce protective love swept over me. I wished for
the hundredth time that I might be big and Cheneston little--ever so
little--that I might take him in my arms roughly and tell him not to
look like that. I felt I could go to Walter Markham and explain
everything, I could sit by his bedside and skin my very soul--but I
couldn't help feeling, even then, it would be easier to do something
bigger and less painful, something more actually physical than
soul-skinning.
I never found it very easy to show my feelings to people; the bigger
they are the more tightly corked they seem. I often wished for, and
sometimes I've cried because I haven't, little frothy feelings that
bubble over into little easy caresses and kind words and pretty
compliments and easy things like that. It rather hurts me to get to the
surface, I seem to have to tug from such a long way down.
"I'll drive you to the station," Cheneston said. "I shall tell mater
you've got to go up to Town on business."
"I'll tell her," I answered hastily.
I knew she would sense Cheneston's disquiet; women lie to women better
than men to women. She took my departure more quietly than I had
anticipated. There was a lovely expression on her dear face--it was as
if her soul was smiling to itself while she was grave. She patted me
with her lovely soft hands.
"And you will be back early to-morrow, dear, funny little girl? It's
odd," she said, "I see a cloud between you and Cheneston. When I first
saw it I was frightened, but now I know it is not made by your
hearts--it is only a cloud your silly brains have made, child, and it
will go. You are going to dissipate some of it to-day."
"Yes," I said, "I am."
It was true. In that at least I didn't lie. I was going to explain the
truth to Walter Markham, and I was going to make it easy for Cheneston
to marry Grace Gilpin.
She held my hand against her face. The charm of her was like a
beautiful, strong current--I can't explain; all the things I long to
express and cannot, the things I suffer so for my inability to voice and
demonstrate, seemed gloriously easy. I put my arms round her and
pressed her face to mine. I loved her with a dear and full love.
"My little Pam!" she said. "My dear, funny little soul!" Then she said
sharply and fiercely: "Oh, Pam, it's cruel if we women who are sent into
the world with out-size hearts and feelings meet the wrong men! I met
the right one!" A note of triumph crept into her voice. "And Cheneston
will understand that in your dear tiny body is a soul and a heart too
big and strong. People call it the artistic temperament--it isn't
really that, it means that something that is shut up and sealed with
other people until they get to heaven where nothing can hurt is left
open--maybe it's left open accidentally, maybe it's meant--and those
people suffer more than the rest of the world, and are more gloriously
glad, and out of the glory and the travail of their souls they give to
the world wonderful music, or wonderful pictures, or wonderful books.
_And they are not like other people_, Pam! They are very great and very
little at the same time, and not one in a thousand can understand how
life hurts, and how glorious it is when it is glorious. Cheneston will
understand; that is why you and he must never, never run away from each
other--you dear, funny little soul!"
Then I heard Cheneston calling.
We drove to the station almost in silence. He took the high dog-cart,
and we could see over the hedges; they sparkled with thousands of
raindrops, and the late dog-roses seemed like phantasies wrought in
vivid coral, and blackberries like black diamonds and rubies jewelled
the world, and every bird seemed singing and every cricket chirping for
sheer gladness of the newly washed day.
He told me he had had an extension of leave.
I was so happy. I have never had a feeling that I did not want to
share--I can't explain. I just want to pass on every bit of loveliness
that comes into my life. We passed lots of children picking
blackberries, and I could have cried because I wanted to kiss them so,
or give them something, or just tell them I thought they'd get the
loveliest lot of blackberries I had ever seen--because I was up in the
world, sitting above the hedges with Cheneston.
We passed a little girl who had spilt all her blackberries and was
crying, and I took off a little gold bracelet I had on and flung it to
her.