upon the road? Patricia cried "No!" in response, and a further
"Lovely!" in case he should be hurt; and then her eyes stole on a
journey. If Edgar could know when she shivered, was there ever to
be any escape from his watchfulness, his care? When Patricia, like
the Devil, was sick, or afraid, there was nothing she so demanded
as care; but when she was well, it irked her. She could see Edgar's
face in profile, brown and kind and firm; and she was a little afraid
of him. She thought he could be stern. Not cruel--never cruel; but
stern. And the words "all the better to eat you with, my dear" crept
into Patricia's head. She was very subdued, and although she was
still observant of the beauties they passed, and stirred by the rapid
motion through crisp air that was now tempered by brilliant sunshine,
extraordinarily defensive argumentation was going on in her brain. If
she were to marry Edgar, it must be after clear speech between them.
Never for comfort or in despair. She was resolved upon that. For one
thing, her respect for him exacted as much. Patricia's nerve had been
shaken, and she had lost some of her self-confidence; and, with that,
some of her natural ease of carriage and pleasure in life itself.
"Where are we going?" she presently called out.
To her surprise, Edgar slowed down. He even stopped, there upon the
Hog's Back, with the beautiful country stretching away in two valleys
upon each side of the lofty road.
"Wherever you like," he said. "We can lunch at Winchester. There's a
village on the way there--a most charming village called Chawton, where
Jane Austen lived--full of old thatched houses. You'd like it. I don't
know anything more delicious in its way. I don't know if we could get
food there."
"Are you hungry?" she asked. Unconsciously her tone was arch; but with
pathetic, troubled archness. "And what's that about Jane Austen?"
"Well, I didn't bring anything to eat, and the air will make you
hungry. We can either go south from Farnham--only I don't know the
roads round Liss or Petersfield;--or we can go on to Winchester, lunch
there, and go back by way of Basingstoke. Or we can turn back now and
go through Guildford to Godalming...."
"Oh, oh!" cried Patricia. "I don't mind what we do."
"You like it?" He was looking at her in such a peculiar way that
Patricia shivered again. It seemed to break her composure, which she
was struggling so hard to preserve.
"Oh, my dear," she whispered suddenly. "I'm not _worth_ it!"
Her hands were in his, and her eyes were as candid as his own. So they
sat in the car on that bright morning, upon the top of the Hog's Back,
and the wide rise and fall of the lower lands spreading to north and
south under a slight haze. The sky above them was a deep blue. The road
was open, and it seemed that none used it, so peaceful was the scene
upon this glorious morning. Only Edgar and Patricia were there, with
the breeze around them, and the sunshine ardent, and a sense of the
limitlessness of the world strong in both.
It was here that their talk began.
v
"Of course the trouble about you is that you don't love me," said
Edgar, in a cool voice which showed that he was anxious by its
elaborate calm. "Not, at any rate, as I love you."
"No," agreed Patricia. Her own tone was a copy of his; and the word was
a mere acceptance. She was as grave as he, and yet neither was grave.
They were both grave and not grave. But Patricia had said "no"; and
Edgar had received the shock to which he had steeled himself.
"Do you--forgive me--you don't love anybody else? It isn't, of course,
necessary that you should; but sometimes it's a factor."
Patricia glanced up at him, and even in her gravity she smiled.
"No, I don't love anybody else," she said. "And I know you well enough
to know that when you talk like that you're being funny."
"I'm not being at all funny," protested Edgar. There was a sound of
consent from Patricia. He went on, undeterred. "The reason you don't
love anybody else is that you're in love with yourself."
"Oh." Patricia had not been so forewarned as to steel herself; and this
shock depressed her. In a very low voice she said, trying to hide her
wound: "I'm not much in love with myself at this moment."
The tone was so sad that unconsciously Edgar pressed her hands in pain.
He would have done so much to save her from humiliation; and yet his
way was clear and his attitude deliberately adopted.
"This is your wickedness, I suppose?" he asked patiently. Patricia
nodded.
"At least, not wickedness--silliness. But perhaps you'd think it worse.
I'd better tell you. Five minutes ago--a few days ago--I thought I
_was_ in love with a man."
"Harry Greenlees," interposed Edgar. Again Patricia nodded.
"I can't have been. I was attracted to him--I thought I was in love
with him. I thought he was my ideal man. I was fond of him. But when it
came to the point I felt I couldn't ever marry him. And as a matter of
fact he didn't _want_ to marry me. He only wanted to have a love affair
with me. But I only found that out at the end. Well, it's a very little
while ago, and I was in great anguish; and now I've forgotten him. It
couldn't have been anything; anything but just a silly playing at love
and beauty. It wasn't his fault. He did care for me in his own way; but
it was a grown-up way; and I wasn't ready for grown-up love. I'm not
ready now. I'm shallow. I don't think I could love anybody. Perhaps
what you said is true."
Edgar had listened with attention; and he could tell that she was being
painfully honest, and that she could not help being honest with him;
and this made him feel proud and humble. It seemed to Edgar to be the
first step in such a relation as theirs must be if it was to lead to
happiness for them both.
"There doesn't seem to me to be much wickedness there," he suggested
mildly.
"No, there isn't," said Patricia, with a faint colour coming to her
cheeks. "The wickedness comes later. The wickedness comes up to
last night." She could tell that he was now really serious, and she
faltered. "It's ... it's Monty," she concluded. Edgar's head jerked.
"Monty!" he cried. "Monty! Oh, but my dear, how _could_ you?" He was
incredulous. "Monty!"
"He fascinated me. There was no question of my being in love with him.
But he made me feel I was wonderful and beautiful...."
"But to be taken in by Monty!" exclaimed Edgar. "It's extraordinary. I
believe women _must_ somehow be less fastidious than men. You couldn't
imagine me fascinated with Monty's counterpart?" His face expressed the
horror he felt at his own image. Patricia shuddered.
"You'd never be fascinated by anybody," she said. "You'd always be
quite calm. Besides, you don't want to be thought wonderful."
"I don't want Brummagem admiration."
"And you don't _give_ it!" she flashed at him. "You don't give _any_
admiration. You don't think I'm wonderful. You think I'm a silly child.
Well, that makes ... you see, I _couldn't_ love you...."
"By the way," said Edgar, coolly. "What makes you think you're so
jolly wonderful? Is it something you _do_, or something you _are_?"
Patricia looked at him breathlessly. She was stimulated to temper.
"Nobody could _ever_ love you!" she cried angrily. "You're too inhuman!"
vi
Her hands were now altogether withdrawn from him, and tears sparkled in
her eyes. Edgar bent forward, so that she could not escape him.
"Look here, Patricia," he said. "Can you imagine the feeling of a
lover who hears that the girl he loves has been making love to an
obvious rotter the previous evening? I mean, if there's one thing
that strikes me about Monty more than another it is his lack of ...
what can I say?--his lack of.... I think he's obviously sensual and
unclean. I can't see his fascination for you. If I came to you and said
I'd been with some horrible woman, wouldn't you turn sick? Well, I'm
disappointed. I'm angry. The love-making is nothing unless you meant
it, which you didn't. It's nothing. You exaggerate its importance. You
were never in any real danger. I don't blame you, except for folly.
Though of course I don't like it. But that you should be _taken in_ by
Monty!"
"I wasn't taken in. I knew he must be a rotter. And yet, you see, I
went there," said Patricia. "That shows the sort of girl I am. I was
miserable and reckless. It amused me to--to play with him, if you
like. It made me feel a woman. I was trying to grow up. You've made a
mistake, Edgar." She was bitter, but not only with anger. There was
hopelessness also in her defiance. "You ought to marry a _nice_ girl."
"I propose to," said Edgar. "I propose to marry you."
"Oho!" cried Patricia. "You won't marry me. You needn't think it."
"Unless of course," retorted Edgar.... "Unless I adopt you. That might
be the simpler course." He also for the moment was bitter with chagrin.
He was encountering a fact which was hard to accept; and he was in love
with Patricia.
vii
Leaving Patricia aghast at his alternative, he began to drive on; and
the sun continued to glitter upon the polished metal of the car and
upon the wind screen. Patricia lay back in her corner recovering her
temper and her composure. Presently she shouted at him.
"You've got too much respect for women!" she said. Edgar took no notice
of her. She was quiet a little while, thinking. At last: "You're quite
right. I'm _not_ wonderful! Edgar, stop! I want to talk to you. I want
to tell you something."
The car was checked; and in her very truthful voice Patricia described
the events of the previous evening. When she came to the thousand
pounds Edgar exclaimed. At the mention of two thousand he turned
quickly to her.
"Monty was prepared to go up to two-thousand five-hundred," he said.
"He's got a regal way of pensioning his mistresses. You might have made
two-thousand five-hundred pounds, Patricia."
"He offered to marry me," answered Patricia, defiantly. "But he
didn't really mean it, of course. It was only something to attract my
attention."
"I was thinking," said Edgar, slowly. "Your lovers are rather a fine
set of men, aren't they!"
"You think they're something to be conceited about?" retorted Patricia.
"Edgar, don't you _really_ think I'm rather wonderful!" It was
apparently wistful; but only apparently so.
"I'm so concerned with my own marvellousness," he crudely answered,
"that I can't spare time to admire yours."
"But Edgar, girls _have_ to be admired," she said. "Look here: you've
_done_ something. You've achieved something. Can't you see that if
you've never _done_ anything you have to make up something to live
for. If I loved you, and had no other ambition, I could live in your
interests, as you want me to. But I can't play second fiddle--not
yet--not until I've sown my wild oats. If I'm no good, then...."
Edgar turned round. If he observed the fiddler sowing wild oats he
ignored the confusion.
"There's something in that," he said. "I don't _want_ you to play
second fiddle. You haven't made up your mind to marry me; but you've
got a sense that you're _going_ to ... that's so, isn't it?" There was
a pause.
"I think so," answered Patricia at last, in a very quiet voice. "It
seems inevitable. That is, if I'm to marry anybody at all. But I'm not
ready to marry you."
"What you'd like to do is not to make up your mind. You'd like to go on
as we are, being friends, until I'm tired of you and you are tired of
me, and we can have disagreeable middle-ages of loneliness and regret.
I don't care to waste our lives in that way. I admit that I'm not an
ideal lover; but I've got other points, and you know them. You know
that in some curious way you depend on me. You may not be in love with
me; but no other man means as much to you, or will ever mean as much.
If it's put to you that you either marry me or lose me, you'll marry me
rather than lose me. But if you don't love me, it would be very wrong
to marry me simply because you couldn't bear to lose me...."
Patricia allowed him to wander on. She was smiling.
"I like to hear you talk," she said. "It's agreeable. It's all
irrelevant, and verbose; and if you think I'm to be threatened into
marrying you, you're mistaken. Can't you see it would murder my vanity?
But I haven't anything to give you. You'd be giving to me all the time.
I could have given something they wanted to Harry and Monty, and when
it came to the point I wouldn't give it, because they couldn't give me
anything I wanted in exchange. You can give me a lot. You can make my
life worth living. But I can't give you anything, because you don't
want it."
"We'll get on to Winchester now," said Edgar, with studied--even
ostentatious--patience. "Because I want to take you back to London to
tea with some friends of ours--Olivia and Peter Stephens."
"Stephens?" said Patricia. "Aren't they ... aren't they the married
people who are happy?" She became thoughtful. The car began to move;
but she was unconscious of everything but her own darting intuitions.
Amy ... the happy young lovers ... what had Amy said? For an instant
full memory of the conversation eluded her. Then at last. "Why take me
there?" she asked.
"It'll do you good to meet some real people for a change," said Edgar.
"Happy people. People who haven't got their heads cluttered with
sophistication and egotism. People who aren't sterile sensation-rakers,
and lascivious fiddlers with their senses."
Again Patricia was lost in thought. His rather heated tone was a
natural discouragement to her. Suddenly she gave an exclamation.
"Oh, babies!" she said. She did not open her lips again until the car
arrived in Winchester.
viii
They had lunched, and were again upon the road; and the bare hedges
showed Patricia lands that stretched full of wood and copse and meadow
into the farthest distance. From a high place upon a common, where
Edgar had halted for the sake of the glorious panorama, she could see
Hampshire extending upon the one hand and Surrey upon the other. She
was very happy now, but her heart a little ached. It was the breeze,
perhaps, that chilled; or a return of her old painful feeling of
loneliness.... But as Patricia thought that, she knew suddenly what she
wanted, and Edgar knew it also, for he put his arm round her.
"My old sweet," he said. "Never think I don't love you,--as much as any
Harry or Monty; and with the same warmth. I do. You're everything to
me."
His lips were very close; and still Patricia delayed, not excited, but
welcoming, half-smiling, half-afraid. She was shy. She had not been shy
with Harry or with Monty. But she was shy with Edgar. From him a kiss
seemed almost ceremonial. And as she thought that, Patricia blushed.
"Don't let's go to the Stephenses'," she said, breathlessly, her head
lowered. "I know why you want me to go there. Do you want babies
so much, Edgar? More than you want me? You see, I'm ... I know I'm
conceited and horrible ... but it's because I feel so worthless."
Lower and lower sank her head, to his breast, and she was held close
to Edgar's heart. "Funny heart, to beat," she said. "You _do_ love me,
don't you.... Really love me...."
"Really," he swore. "All my heart."
"And you think I'm an idiot."
"Yes."
Patricia hit her lover a sharp blow of exasperation.
"And you don't think I'm wonderful."
"No."
She sat upright again, still within the circle of his arm.
"Has your car got a name?" she asked.
"Yes, Budge. Claudia named him; because at first he wouldn't. She kept
saying 'He won't budge. He won't budge.' And suddenly he _did_. So
that's how he was christened."
"Well," said Patricia, as though she were concluding a scene. "This is
all very well; but ... Edgar, you _do_ love me? And you'll try to make
me less idiotic? Of course, I'm not in love with you. You don't attract
me at all. But in a sort of way you're rather nice."
Her lips were trembling. She blinked away some tears. It did not at all
accord with her anticipation of romance. And yet it was shot through
and through with a beautiful tranquillity.
"I wish you'd let me kiss you," said Edgar. "I can't if you turn your
face away. Unless I slew it round by force."
"Silly!" muttered Patricia. Edgar exerted force. Not much was
necessary. Patricia put her arms round his neck, and they kissed, and
then laughed. "Suppose we're making a mistake," she cried. "Suppose
it's all wrong."
"After all, most people take a risk," said Edgar.
"I don't take a risk. It's _you_ who take the risk," she answered. "You
can be trusted. I can't. Look at the way I've behaved. I'm a rake!
Suppose I ran away with somebody?"
"Then I should keep the babies," said Edgar.
Patricia looked indignantly at him.
"You're only a great baby yourself!" she said. "How extraordinary!
And I thought...." She was amazed. It was a discovery of the most
astounding significance to her. She had thought of him always hitherto
as a grown-up. Was he then not grown-up? Her eyes glowed. "Edgar, tell
me this!" she exclaimed. "Are you afraid of me?"
"I am," said Edgar.
"Truly afraid? And do you think I'm a poor insect?"
"I think you're the most wonderful creature that ever lived. I adore
you," said Edgar.
Great tears splashed from Patricia's eyes. Laughing, she held him
closely, and impulsively kissed the brown cheek next her own.
"Dearest!" she cried. "It's a dream. I didn't know I ... I didn't
realise how much I loved you, until just exactly that moment when I saw
you were nothing but a silly baby. But you're artful, you know! You're
a deep one." Ruminatingly, she presently added: "I'm not so sure about
those risks."
She was strangely exalted and happy, and her face was the funny face of
a baby; and she sometimes could not meet Edgar's eyes, and sometimes
boldly sought them; and altogether was mystified by her own sensations,
and by the odd thoughts which came sparkling into her mind and on
to her tongue. The two of them continued to sit in Budge and to be
consumed in the marvel of their situation. Around them the wind played
and the sun shone as it travelled towards the west, and the counties
continued to subsist as if no lovers sat high above them absorbed in
joy.
THE END.