THEY decided to ask Miss Ferris, the landlady’s daughter, for
a cup of tea, before they set out on the journey home. June felt she
could afford to take the risk, since by now the situation was well in
hand. Mr. Mitchell raised no objection. Himself an ampler man for a
noble lunch, he had been recounting tales of Araby and lands of fair
renown in the privacy of the Office. His suit of Robin Hood green and
a certain gallantry of bearing had made considerable impact in an
amazingly short time, not upon Miss Ferris merely, but upon her widowed
mother, the sole proprietress of the Unicorn Inn, who in the words of
the local manager of the East Anglia and Overtons Bank “was the warmest
woman in Crowdham Market.”
While Mr. Mitchell (Sergeant, R.E., D.C.M. with clasp), and the widow
were in the garden admiring the early pansies, June and William sat
down to tea in the coffee room. Even there the contiguity of Miss
Ferris had rather a tendency to cramp June’s style. High-coloured girl,
she was a little inclined to take liberties as she passed around the
table. And when June, in her sweetest and best Miss Babraham manner,
asked if they might have some crab apple jam, she caught the glint of
the ring on June’s heart finger in a way so direct that she murmured
something about having to look out for her eyesight--or words equally
ill-bred--and nearly dropped the tea pot.
By the time they got under way and the nose of the car was set for the
pleasant land of Surrey, a doubt infected the mind of Mr. Mitchell as
to whether they would make Homefield before midnight. Neither June
nor William seemed to care very much whether they did or whether
they didn’t. The car was most comfortable, the sense of romance hot
upon them still, the presence of each other vital and delicious in
their consciousness. Mile passed upon mile. The endless spool of road
continued to unwind itself, a little wind breathed gentle nothings, Mr.
Mitchell sat four-square in front, the birds still sang, but the sun
was going down.
Saying very little, they lived never-to-be-forgotten hours. Now and
again William pointed to a bird or a tree, the fold of a hill, the form
of a cloud, the gleam of a distant water. Yet for the most part the
nearness of each other was all sufficing. June began to nestle closer;
the chill of night came on. Saying less than ever now, moonstones and
diamonds stole upon her thoughts. She was haunted by a lovely fear that
she could not live up to them. And then softly and more soft, she began
to breathe with a rhythmical rise and fall, slowly deepening to a faint
crescendo that blended with the motions of the car.
East by west of nowhere came the high moment when the sun was not,
and the moon not yet. Somewhere over Surrey a star was dancing. Very
shyly and gently he ventured to give her a kiss. She stirred ever so
little. A bird spoke from a brake, a note clear and wonderful, yet the
month was young for the nightingale. But this was Cloud Cuckoo Land, a
divine country in which the nightingale may be heard at odd seasons.
Psyche stirred again. With a reverence chaste and simple he gave her a
second kiss, deep and slow. The solemn sacrament was fire to the soul
of an artist. And then he gave a little gasp. The high gods in his
brain whispered that the moon was coming.
The moon was coming.
Yes, there she was, the sovereign lady! He sat very still, praying,
praying that he might surprise some holy secret, hidden even from
Duclaux.
She was very wonderful to-night. Her loveliness was more than he could
bear. There was a touch of intimacy in her magic; the country over
which she shone was elfland. He seemed to hear a faint familiar sound
of horns. Or it might have been the swift gliding of the car.
In the quietness of the spirit’s ecstasy he could have wept.
Might it be given to Duclaux to see her, lovely lady, just as he could
see her now!
But he mustn’t dare to breathe or the vision would be forever lost.