Arthur heard a slight noise somewhere round the back of the cottage.
"Someone coming," he warned.
Rose retreated a few steps and lowered her head.
"Walk up the lane," she whispered, "I'll come presently."
"Alright," Arthur nodded, "_buck_ up."
He walked a few yards up the road, and then turned through a wicket
gate and mounted the hump of a meadow. The narrow path swerved slightly
to right and left. Arthur fell to meditating upon paths in general and
how they came into existence. Obviously, it was because people always
walked in the same way. Countless footsteps, following the same line
until the grass wore away. That was very odd when you came to think
about it. Why didn't people choose different ways of crossing that
particular meadow? Then there would be innumerable paths, representing
a variety of choice. It would be interesting to start a path of
your own, and see how many people would follow you, even though you
deliberately chose a circuitous or not obviously direct route. You
could come every day until the path was made.
He climbed over the top of the meadow, descended again into a valley,
and stopped before a stile with hedges running away on either side. He
decided to wait here for Rose. It would be pleasant to see her coming
over the hill.
It was gloaming now. The few visible stars shone with a peculiar
individual brightness, and looked strangely pendulous in the fading
blue sky. He leaned back and gazed at the depths above him. This time
of the day was always puzzling. You could never tell exactly at what
moment the sky really changed into the aspect of evening, and then,
night. Yet there must be some subtle moment when each star was born.
Perhaps by looking hard enough it would be possible to become aware
of these things. It would be like watching a bud unfold. Slow change
was an impenetrable mystery, for actually things seemed to happen
too quickly for you to notice them. Or rather, you were too busy to
notice them. Spring was like that. Every year you made up your mind to
notice the first blossoming, the initial tinge of green; but always it
happened that you awoke one morning and found that some vast change had
taken place, so that it really seemed like a miracle.
He sat there, dangling an empty pipe between his teeth. He was not
conscious of a desire to smoke, and he felt strangely tolerant of
Rose's delay. She would come presently.
Presently his reverie was abruptly disturbed by a faint noise,
strangely familiar although remote. It seemed to reach him from
the right, as though something crept slowly along the hedge line,
hidden from his view. It was a soft, purring sound, very regular and
sustained. At first he thought it was the cry of a pheasant, but
decided that it was much too persistent. It was something that made a
noise in the process of walking along.
He held his breath and turned his head slowly to the right. For a long
time the sound increased only very slightly. And then, there broke upon
the general stillness a series of abrupt explosions.