PART THIRTY-ONEOUT OF IT
Beatrice Cochrane stayed on at Sunflowers while the formalities of her marriage were being arranged. Patricia found her very difficult to understand. She combined, bewilderingly, idealism and common-sense, a feeling for poetry with unfailing judgment of practical values. Educationally, the Englishwoman found herself quite overmastered: the comprehensiveness of Beatrice’s college-training made British standards seem entirely out of date. And yet, in a way, Beatrice was old-fashioned; she lacked, Patricia thought, adaptability; inclined to let “ought to be” dominate “is.” Sometimes, this lack of adaptability irritated Patricia.
Beatrice, on her part, was equally puzzled. She had, as yet, no key to the English mentality. England, regarded from the Sunflowers viewpoint, appeared to her a country of postponement and acceptance. Rightly or wrongly, a thingwasthus and so. If right, why seek to improve. If wrong—extraordinary, she thought, how easily the English admitted a thing could be wrong—put up with it. Sometimes, this putting-up-with-things made Beatrice perfectly furious!
But in spite of these fundamental Anglo-American differences Patricia loved Beatrice, and Beatrice—frankly—adored Patricia. At the end of three days, not only “Mrs. Jameson,” but “Mr. Jameson” and “Mr. Gordon” disappeared from the American girl’s vocabulary: and on the evening of April the fifth—when the last remnants of Peter’s wine-cellar celebrated America’s entry into the lists—it was Beatrice who proposed: “Pat! Because, just for once, she forgot to behave like an Englishwoman.”
At which reference to forbidden topics, Peter’s wife blushed perfectly scarlet, and looked appealingly to Francis for protection. But Francis Gordon only laughed, “It’s the least you deserve for interfering.”
“And I think,” went on Beatrice, “that while drinking Pat’s health we ought not to forget another person whose name also begins with P. . . .”
“Meaning me?” interrupted Peter.
“No, sir,”—her eyes twinkled with fun—“meaning my future”—she laughed outright—“butler. Prout!”
“Lord,” said Francis Gordon. “This is what comes of getting engaged to a Democrat.”
“Republican,” corrected Beatrice. “And I don’t believe you know the difference yet.”
Her fiancé subsided into adoring silence. . . . For already even the unobservant Peter saw quite clearly who would rule the roost at Glen Cottage!
And apparently this tender “bossing” was just the one thing needful to Francis Gordon’s temperament. He expanded under it; became positively human. His very physique seemed to improve: the hopeless shuffle became a mere limp; he carried his head erect, his shoulders unbowed. She forbade him to use the word “cripple”; and for two pins she would have taken away his stick. “But it makes me so interesting,” he protested laughingly. “My dear man”—Beatrice drawled the words in imitation—“there’s only one thing really interesting about anybody.” “And that?” he queried. “Is the work they mean to do in the world.”
On this question of work, the girl brooked no doubting. She believed in his work; and for her sake if for nobody else’s—(“there is nobody else,” he remonstrated: “there’s everybody else in the world,” she told him)—he must succeed. “You’ve got to count,” she said. “You’ve got to besomebody.” She did not desire money for him—she had so much money that Francis, when he first heard of it, almost wanted to cry off the marriage; but she did desire success. Until he won that “success,” neither he nor she would move from Glen Cottage. . . .
But as this is only indirectly the tale of Francis and Beatrice, we must not analyse them too deeply. It suffices that they are utterly happy in each other; that Love, which is finer than reason, does not blind but rather gives them clear vision. They know, as they tolerate, each other’s faults: and though Fame has not yet quite come to Glen Cottage, they feel they can already hear the beating of his wings. . . . And if they are a trifle “cranky” on the subject of “Anglo-Saxondom,” if they set the unity of the English-speaking races above the pipe-dreams of the internationalists,—that blame, if blame it be, their very love-story excuses. . . .
All through his cousin’s wedding in the little church at Arlsfield, Peter—who gave away the bride—felt conscious of a reasonless but ever-growing depression. It seemed to him as though—Francis married—his last man-friend would vanish. Almost he grudged the veiled girl her obvious happiness. . . .
And this feeling of depression did not wear off as the easy April days slipped by. Rather, it increased. All the man in Peter resented ill-health; resented the lack of male companionship; resented idleness. And idleness, Heron Baynet assured him, was imperative: two hours of manual labour in the garden and one trip to London about finance, proved the correctness of Heron Baynet’s contention.
He began to worry about the future. His pension, thirty shillings a week subject to revision, barely paid a third of his assurance premiums—the children must be sent to school—the expenses of Sunflowers rose hourly with the tide of war-extravagance which had swept over England. “Things can’t go on like this,” exactly represents Peter’s attitude.
He decided to go back into the tobacco-business—and reversed decision as soon as reached. The mere thought of London nauseated him. Somehow, he could no longer imagine himself at a desk. . . . Patricia, consulted on this point, agreed so strenuously that Peter became suspicious. “Why shouldn’t I go back?” he remonstrated. “It’s the only trade I know. The Imperial would give me a job tomorrow.” . . . Nevertheless, he discarded the idea.
The tobacco-business, like the Army, lay behind him. He was out of the one as he was out of the other. But memories of both still haunted his mind. Of the two lives he had lived, he missed the military one most. Maurice Beresford, Elkins, Schornstein and the Bramsons seemed petty figures compared with the Weasel and General Blacklock, Conway and Sandiland and Charlie Henry. But letters from the Brigade dwindled and dwindled, soon ceased altogether; till only an occasional poem by Purves, who continued his conquering campaign in the Press, and Alice Stark’s gossipy letters to Patricia, reminded of khaki.
For the world, war went on; but for Peter it had stopped dead. He saw it from afar: spectator and not participant. His lack of interest in it amazed him almost as much as the glorious credulity of the civilians with whom he occasionally discussed its official versions—perversions. Finally, in a fit of ungovernable annoyance over a picture of “cheery wounded” after the battle of Messines, he barred the topic altogether. Patricia made no objection; but the children demurred furiously.
“If Daddy isn’t going to tell us about killing Germans,” threatened Primula one evening, “I shall refuse to go to sleep.”
“You bloodthirsty little wretch,” began Peter; and till their mother intervened, “bloodthirsty” becametheschool-room adjective.
However, Evelyn and Primula’s passion for the word “bloodthirsty” paled into insignificance at the coming of Peter’s brother Arthur. Arthur had “got a job” at the Godstone flying-school; and you never knew, as you sat at lessons or romped in the garden, what particular moment might not bring the drone of Arthur’s engine, high up in the air, like an enormous bee. He used to come swooping across country, from behind the trees at the back of the paddock; and you could always tell if it were Uncle Arthur becausehisengine made a funny noise—buzz, stop, buzz, stop, buzz—when he meant to land in Tebbits’ pasture. Once, too, Uncle Arthur stunted, really “stunted,” for nearly twenty minutes, miles up, right over the roof. . . . But Arthur never repeated that blissful performance; his “falling leaf” proving too much for Peter’s nerves.
“You neurasthenic old idiot,” growled the flying man, “there’s no danger at all. One just shuts off the engine. . . .”
“I know all about that,” said Peter, “but to see you turning over and over sideways frightens me out of my wits. Besides, if anything happened, you’d be court-martialled.”
“By the Archangel Gabriel, I suppose,” grinned Arthur; and soared off into the blue.
“Now that,” thought Peter, “is a man’s life. Whereas mine.” . . . And again depression gripped him.
May come gloriously. Hawthorn hedges donned their ruddiest coral; orchard foamed below the gravel terrace; wild cherry spangled blossom against the greenery of new-leaved beech woods beyond the paddock. Peter didn’t care. Frankly, he was bored to tears. He wanted something to do. He missed his horses. If you couldn’t hunt in May, at least you could ride. Whatdidone do with oneself in the country during that rotten month, May? Fish perhaps? He dallied a day with his trout-rod, unearthed some rather dingy flies; hired a push-bike in Arlsfield (Peter detested Arlsfield); and cycled to Henley. The may-fly was on the water; not a fish would bite. Fish on the lower Thames rarelydobite. Still, that day re-introduced him to the river.
Next time, he left the trout-rod and took Patricia. Tebbits lent them his trap for the day; and they enjoyed themselves. He sculled her up to Wargrave; she paddled him home down the backwater.
“Good pals, you and I, aren’t we, Pat,” he said to her as they drove back through the twilight.
“Yes, dear.” She had abandoned her love-dreams. Love, as she saw love in the eyes of Francis and Beatrice, was not for her. She must satisfy herself with palship, be content among the ranks and files of matrimony.
“I have been a fool,” she thought, “a sentimental fool. Love is not for me. I am just an average woman, an average middle-class woman. And like all women, I have expected too much of life. Life has been very kind to me; I mustn’t grumble. Life has given him back to me. Isn’t that enough?”
She looked at the man by her side. He drove steadily, wrist giving to horse’s mouth. A loose dust-coat hid the lines of his figure: under it, legs, feet and ankles showed white in boating-attire. Soft hat, brim down-turned, shadowed the thin face, the serious eyes.
Again she thought, “I have been a fool. Life holds nothing better than this: to be one’s husband’s friend. Love is only for the very young. We are old married people. We have been married over ten years. I will be reasonable. I will content myself with the much that is mine. He has always been good to me. He has always been faithful to me. I have the children.”
The mare trotted on, steadily, soberly, resigned to loose bit, to ungalling collar and easy load. Even so, Patricia resigned herself to matrimony. . . .
Peter set down his wife at Sunflowers, drove on to Tebbits’ alone. “Back in half-an-hour,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll just help the old man unharness Kitty.” But old man Tebbits would never unharness the brown mare again! He had died an hour back; painlessly; asleep in the vast wooden chair Charlie had made for him.
“He always slept his few minutes after his dish of tea,” explained Miss Tebbits. “And when I tried to wake him, I found I couldn’t.”
There was no uproar at the farm, no confusion; but none of the labourers had gone home. “He was a good father to us all,” said Harry, unbuckling the traces with firm fingers. “I’m making no complaint about him.” Sid Dyson, the carter—a heavy-footed shaggy man with grizzled beard—led the mare to her stable. William, a big bent fellow who lived with his mother at Little Arlsfield, came wheeling his mud-encrusted bike from the cowhouse. “Good-night, Mr. Harry,” called William. “Good-night to you.” The “boy”—(“never keep more than one boy—twotalks,” had been one of old man Tebbits’ aphorisms)—stood about, now on one leg, now on the other, uncertain of his duty.
“You’d better be off,” ordered Harry. The blond giant turned to Peter. “Would you care to see him, sir? . . .”
They had carried the old man as far as the kitchen sofa; spread a patchwork quilt over his limbs. In the scullery, Miss Tebbits was washing up: Peter could hear the trickle of water, the clink of crockery, as he stood gazing down on the gnarled happy face. “Thus, men should die,” thought Peter “not. . . .” Old pictures came crowding on his mind; he saw other faces, dreadful faces, faces of young men who should have been alive. . . .
Charlie Tebbits, summoned from Arlsfield, stalked hatless into the room. “He was a good father,” said Charlie, “I’ve no complaint to make about him.”
Peter wanted to get away, to leave these two alone with their dead. He held out his hand to Charlie. “I’m sorry.” The man gripped it. “He always liked you, sir.” Harry followed him out of the kitchen. They walked slowly down the flag-path to the gate.
Peter held out his hand again. “See you tomorrow Harry.” The giant fidgeted for a moment; his blue eyes under the golden brows gazed straight into Peter’s.
“Father said,” began Harry, “that if anything happened to him we was to tell you about that lease.”
“What about it?” asked Peter wonderingly.
“Father didn’t like signing that lease,” went on Harry. “He didn’t ought to have signed it neither. That Henley solicitor fellow, he was altogether too sharp. And father got angry with him.”
It took half-an-hour before Peter got to the bottom of matters. Apparently, the trouble lay not in the house itself, but in the paddock. House and orchard stood on a little patch of freehold ground—Tebbits’ property: but the paddock, like most of Tebbits’ land, was leasehold—and Tebbits’ lease (an old-fashioned contract) expired with old man Tebbits.
“Well, I don’t see it matters,” said Peter finally. “You’ll keep the farm on, I suppose.”
“If we can,” said Harry, pulling at his great moustache. “If we can, sir.” He clumped heavily back to the house.
PART THIRTY-TWOEND—OR BEGINNING?
Rightly to understand what follows—which is the ending (or the beginning, according to standpoint) of romance—you must recall to memory that Peter the First, grandfather of our Mr. Jameson, who left the country for the town at the commencement of the great English manufacturing era about eighteen hundred and forty, tried his luck in the City of London, and ended his days on the tobacco-farm in Guanabacoa, Cuba; also Peter the Second, father of our Mr. Jameson, and founder of Jameson & Co., Lime Street. Nor must you quite forget Captain “Chips” Bradley, Tessa Bradley, and the exotic Hebraic strain of the Miraflores. For all these played their ghostly parts in the mind of their descendant as he walked that debatable paddock in the warm sunshine of a late May morning ten days after the death of old man Tebbits. . . .
Fry had dug up half-an-acre of that paddock; and already the mauve potato-flower was in bloom above its dark leaves. “Confound it,” thought Peter, “I’m not going to be done out of this paddock. I paid to have it dug up, didn’t I?”
He looked at the two chicken-houses. They would have to be moved. It would take Fry half-a-day to move them. Half-a-day at thirty shillings a week. . . .
And immediately the word “business” formed itself in Peter’s brain. He had never before considered the country in the light of business: the country had been for him a place where town-people made holiday; a rather jolly picturesque kind of place—scenery among which one rode, or killed pheasants, or drove golf-balls. Now he saw the country as the peasant sees it—but the peasant in Peter had been sharpened by a half-a-generation among townsfolk.
“It isn’t justabusiness,” he thought. “It’sthebusiness. The greatest business in the world. And I’ve been living right in the middle of it for six months without grasping that simple fact.”
Then the Jew in Peter said, quite distinctly, “My boy, there’s money in this.”
Prudence the pig grunted a hint of feeding-time. But to Peter she was Prudence the pig no longer: she was Prudence the breeding sow, and the sooner she went to the boar the better. Pigs! “Little pigs pays all right,” he seemed to hear old man Tebbits speaking. Then imagination outran Tebbits; if little pigs paid to sell, big hogs paid to rear. “Question of feeding cost,” remarked the ghost of Peter the First. . . .
The man in the white flannel trousers, with the belted shooting-coat and the Old Etonian tie, looked at the woods beyond the paddock. Beeches! There were beeches in those woods; beech-mast, roots, all sorts of pig-fodder. He saw an endless procession of hogs, running through the paddock to feed in those woods.
“Damn it,” said Peter, “I’ve got to have the paddock. . . .”
Three hens fluttered up onto the wire-netting round the potato-patch; swayed there a moment; dropped over among the potato-plants. Patricia couldn’t make hens pay. Of course she couldn’t. They were bad hens. And chicken food was too dear. But if one grew one’s own corn. . . .
“Self-supporting,” thought Peter suddenly. “Cut the middle-man’s profit.”
A cow lowed from across the road. Thought process went on. Peasant, soldier, Jew and business-man met round the board-room table of Peter’s brain. First the land; then the men to work the land. “Don’t pay rent. Buy outright,” said Business. “Keep ’em in order,” rasped the soldier. “Crops and stock,” said the peasant, “crops and stock, stock and crops.” “And your markets,” whispered the Jew, “never forget your markets. Work to your markets—supply and demand, demand and supply.” . . . All of which counsels the old Etonian crystallized into the words, “Why not become a gentleman-farmer?”
“Snobbish idea”—this time Peter spoke aloud. “Gentleman farmer—gentleman business-man—discharged officer would like to sell wine and cigars on commission. Rubbish! A job’s a job. The man who does his job is a gentleman: the man who plays with his job is. . . .” The Expeditionary Force epithet sailed bluely into the country air.
From abstract ideas, thought switched automatically to Tebbits’ Farm. The position, as far as he could gather from Harry, was this: the Colonel (“damn that Colonel,” thought Peter, “why hasn’t his wife called on Pat?”) did not want to renew old man Tebbits’ lease; the Colonel wanted to sell his land; Harry Tebbits couldn’t afford to buy it. But he, Peter, could afford to buy it; and if he didn’t—here the peasant in Peter grew very angry—somebody else might do him out of this very paddock. “Then sue Tebbits’ estate for damage,” counselled the Jew. “You don’t know anything about farming. You’ll make a hash of it like your brother Arthur. Farming’s a difficult business, my boy. Why not lend Harry the money? Six per cent and no risk. If he can’t make it pay, you foreclose. . . .”
Peter walked slowly back to the house; but the next morning, and the next, and the morning after that, he spent in the paddock. The more he considered this business of farming, the wider its scope appeared. It embraced everything he needed: plenty of work, limitless opportunities, a bit of a fight, a bit of a gamble, men to boss, horses to ride. And if one could learn to be a gunner in six months, surely one could learn to be a farmer. . . . “In how long?” asked Reason: and Peter realized for the first time his utter practical ignorance. . . .
For two days he abandoned the scheme. Then a milking-time visit to Tebbits’ brought the whole business back. He might not know much about farming; but any ass could seethiswasn’t right. “Filthy,” said the soldier in Peter, “filthy! Flies and filth and a dung-heap round the corner. That milk would poison a regiment.”
Finally, he decided to talk the whole thing out with Harry. If Harry would come into partnership; if Harry would listen to reason. . . . For already the business-man in Peter had realized that farming on Tebbits lines was a thing of the past; a picturesque anachronism.
“Farming”—Peter must have said this to himself at least a hundred times during those few days—“isn’t justabusiness. It’sthebusiness. And like all businesses it’s got to be big. All this talk about small holdings is blather. The small-holder works himself to death for less wages than a dock-labourer.” . . .
It must be admitted that Peter’s first talk with Harry Tebbits frightened that worthy almost as much as “our Mr. Jameson” had frightened Turkovitch in Nirvana days. Still, Harry listened. “Yes, I know we don’t produce as cheap as we might, nor sell as dear as we could,” admitted Harry. “ ’Tis the Government’s fault, I’m thinking.”
Peter laughed. “They don’t grow much hay in Westminster, Harry. No English Government ever helped a business-man yet. We’ve got to help ourselves. Now about the milk. Sealed bottlesandour own deliveries, ‘guaranteed pure,’ ‘from the cow to the kid.’ Ford cars to Reading and Henley. Eggs too,andvegetables. Bacon. . . .”
“Bacon!” ejaculated Harry.
“Of course. If little pigs pay, big hogs pay; if it pays people to buy big hogs, it will pay us to kill, cure, smokeandretail ’em.”
“We can’t do anything this side of Michaelmas. Lease isn’t up till then,” said Harry, hardly convinced.
“No; but we can do an awful lot ofthinking.” . . .
. . . And, thinking, thought expanded. With fourteen thousand pounds of capital; and the key-industry of life—what couldn’t a man accomplish? Peter sent for books, pamphlets; buried himself in statistics;—and the more he read the more he convinced himself that the secret of farming was no secret at all. Farming was just like any other business: it depended on two questions—“How cheaply can I produce? How dearly can I sell?”
“Machinery and marketing,” said Peter. “Same old problem.”
The spectre of “labour” did not frighten him. Eliminate the middle-man, and there would be enough surplus profits, in the particular business of farming, to give “labour” all it wanted. “Provided,” added Peter, “that ‘labour’ will do its job.” Besides, the Tebbits-Jameson farm would be run on co-partnership lines, as the Nirvana factory was to have been. “Share and share,” said our Mr. Jameson, “I’ll do my job if they’ll do theirs. . . .”
At which exact point in his schemes for the future—Peter Jameson fell head over ears in love with his own wife!
How the thing happened: whether he had always been “in love” with her and only just discovered the fact; whether the example of Francis and Beatrice, emerging from the seclusion of honeymoon, influenced him; whether leisure, returning health, heredity, environment, or his growing affection for Sunflowers first started the wheels of passion—it is impossible to say. Remains the fact that he did fall in love with her, head over heels, madly, crazily and unreasonably in love. To elaborate a slang expression much in vogue at the time, “he dived in at the deep end.”
Peter “dived in” at exactly five o’clock on a gorgeous afternoon in earliest June. They were having tea on the sunk lawn—she, he, Francis, Beatrice, and the two children. And quite suddenly, watching her as she bent over the table, he knew an insane impulse. He wanted to cuddle his own wife, in full sunshine, shamelessly; he wanted “these people” out of the way. Instead, he asked her for another cup of tea!
But this “insane impulse” (so he phrased it to himself) refused to be suppressed. It recurred constantly that day, the next day and the day after. It became an obsession. He argued with it: “Don’t be a fool, P.J. She’ll think you’ve gone crazy. Youhavegone crazy. . . .”
Then, he began tothinkabout her, as Heron Baynet had taught him to think, in pictures. He saw her kneeling at the altar, on their honeymoon, in Lowndes Square, at Brighton, in Harley Street. Always, she had been his pal. Damn it, he didn’t want her for his pal—he wanted to cuddle her. She became of a sudden so attractive that he could hardly sit opposite to her at the dinner-table. . . .
He said to himself: “But whatmoredo you want of her? She’s yours, isn’t she?” . . .
Followed self-reproach. What a wife she’d been to him! What a wife!! But had he ever appreciated her? No, he had not. He’d been a perfect cad to her. . . . What a wife! Had she ever grumbled? No, she had not. Had he ever grumbled? Yes, he had. When he lost his money, did she complain? No, she didn’t. Did he? Yes, he did . . . et caetera, et caetera. . . .
But the most amazing incident of those most amazing days was the simultaneous recurrence of two mind-pictures. In one picture, he lay on a bed, screens round it, and she looked down on him, love unmistakable in her eyes. In the other—but the other was incredible. He refused to believe that other. “Ihavegone crazy,” he repeated, “perfectly crazy.” . . .
He decided himself the victim of hallucinations; and went on with his farming-plans. . . . But farming-plans could not exorcise the desire to cuddle Patricia, to hold her hand, to tell her that she was the only woman in the world, that he loved her madly. . . .
Finally, he determined to risk it. At the worst, she would only laugh. He realized that if she laughed he would hit her. Courage braced to the sticking-point, he waited his opportunity. . . .
And no opportunity came! They were never alone—except late at night, and “late at night” wouldn’t do. It wasn’t a “late at night” mood. It wasn’t a married mood at all. “Damn it!” said Peter Jameson, “can’t a man cuddle his own wife in the middle of the day if he wants to?”
But he couldn’t! Something or somebody always interfered: servants, children, visitors, Fry, the house. He began to hate “the house.” “The house” spoiled everything. He must get her away from the house, from Fanny and Elizabeth, from the children, from Fry and “those damn chickens” and Prudence the pig. . . .
At last, the great idea came. To himself, he called it their “second honeymoon”: to her, he said he wanted a “holiday.” The river in June and July was “top-hole”; he’d always wanted to punt—nothing but a punt seemed adequate—from Goring to Oxford, well not exactly Oxford, beyond Oxford, say Godstone. They might punt to Godstone and see Arthur. They might go further up Thames. It depended how he felt. He’d not been feeling very well lately. He wanted a change.
She demurred: one couldn’t leave the children. He sulked—cannily. Then he went to see Beatrice.
“You wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on things when we’re away?”
“Butwhydo you want to go?” asked Francis’ wife. She had installed herself in the oak-panelled morning-room; looked like ablonde cendréelily in the mellow gloom of its beeswaxed walls.
“Just for a holiday,” prevaricated Peter; but he blushed faintly as he spoke.
“Don’t English people ever tell the truth?” she said understandingly.
He hesitated the fraction of a second before answering: “Very rarely—about that sort of thing.”
Two days later, perfectly unconscious of the web which had been woven round her, Patricia yielded; and they started on the twelfth of June: two very ordinary people with two very ordinary suit-cases and a large luncheon-basket: he in white duck trousers, brogued buskin shoes, and flannel blazer; she in shantung coat and skirt, remnant of Lodden Lodge holidays—écru velours hat, Beatrice’s gift, shading her slumbrous eyes. . . .
If you take punt at Hobbs’ Wharf, which banks the mill-creek beside Goring Lock; and glide out through some great morning of river-sunshine, under the white willows of “Nun’s Acre,” past Cleeve Lock ablaze with roses, into that long reach which runs lockless between oak and elm as far as Wallingford: (you will find at Molesey ferry a pleasant hostelry yclept “The Beetle and Wedge,” set a-purpose to hearten weary punters ere they pass under the almost ugliness of a red-brick railroad-causeway): and if, having rested at Wallingford, you pole on, by the narrow cleft of Benson’s Lock; and on, over the broad river-highway, through Shillingford; you will come in the fulness of even-time, past over-arching woods, to the vaulted spans of Clifton Hampden Bridge. . . .
Clifton Hampden’s self is a village of honeysuckled cottages, and quiet lost housen of quiet lost gentlefolk who climb o’ Sundays to the belled Church which looks down on Clifton Hampden’s Bridge and Clifton Hampden’s “Barley Mow.” . . .
But if you love our Thames, who is the father of England even as the sea is England’s great mother (and these twain mate in London Pool for all the world to see), you will not rest overlong at the “Barley Mow.” Father Thames will draw you on, against his own current, past Sutton Courtney’s foaming weirs and Wittenham’s “Plough,” and the mouth of the “Thame” (which is not the Thames, though it serpentines cunningly through flat fields to Dorchester, where, in an Abbey of olden stone, rest the bones of many a saint and many a Norman knight and dame); and on past Dorchester to Abingdon. . . .
At Abingdon, rest you one night—even as Peter and Patricia rested—yet rest not over-late. For beyond Abingdon (and this is a glory of wood and waterland you shall scarce believe) Radley’s flag flaunts, bright as colours at a girl’s bosom, among the bosoming downs of English oak. . . . Yet even this glory, Father Thames—if he loves you—will bid you leave behind. It shall dwindle astern as the steady pole dives from your hand and the taut body presses you onwards. . . .
Thus, ere river-afternoon is river-evening, shall you raise the plumed smoke-stack of Sandford Mills; and, lingering not, make Iffley, and the meadow-banks beyond Iffley, and Magdalen Tower, and the mellow dome of the Bodleian Library. And haplyyoushall see the old-time Oxford of dreaming spires and leisured youth—not Patricia’s khaki-haunted, headstrong, hurrying town. . . .
Oxford passed (and this passing is a sadness, for sloven houses creep down to Thames bank, and Victorian factories blacken the clear stream, and children such as should not be in England dabble thin legs in the mud), Father Thames hesitates among meadow-flats—as you will hesitate between the “Perch” and the “Trout,” neither of which will allure you, for the one is of the beanfeaster and the other (though it was a guest-house in days when Fair Rosamond languished a bow-shot away at Godstone) resounds all day to the drone of the circling ’plane. . . . Wherefore, pole up beyond Godstone: and there, where Father Thames runs young between flag-flower-stems and faded meadow-sweet and sharpening bulrush-spears, may his river-nymphs be as benign for you as they were for Peter and his Patricia on that windless evening of an English June-time. . . .
It seemed to them that they had scarce left Sunflowers behind; and yet it seemed to them as though not only Sunflowers but all their known life lay so far behind them as to be almost out of memory. They had glided out of life, over endless rippleless water, through endless sunshine, into love’s own land. But no word of love had these two yet spoken. . . .
The fog of the years still hid them, each from each: only now the fog was all irradiated, a mist of sun-motes; and through the shimmering radiance of that clearing mist, their souls, not yet full-visioned, came peering and afraid. . . .
Many times, in those days of river-sunshine, their souls had caught glimpses of each other; touched, even as their bodies touched in the fragrance of the river-nights. But fulfilment and full-visioning had not yet been given. A strange shy tenderness separated them; locking Peter’s lips. . . .
But already, Patricia knew! The knowledge lay deep down in her heart—maiden-knowledge. Her womanhood, her experience, the reasoning powers on which she had prided herself so long, played no part in this secret awareness of love. It seemed to her that she had never been his wife; never borne his children nor tended his house; that she would come to him virgin. And as virgins are aware, so she knew that she would be aware of the time and place appointed for her bridal. . . .
“I say, Pat, what about tea?”
Peter ran the long racing-punt skilfully to the slip-stage of Eynsham Weir; stood balanced on slanting pole.
She looked up from the cushions. “If you like, dear. Are you feeling tired?”
“A little,” he admitted.
The weir-man (there are few locks on the upper Thames) strolled down to help them out; took the luncheon-basket.
“Have to take those bags out before we run her over, I’m afraid, sir. She’ll be liable to break her back if we don’t.”
“Tie her up where she is for a bit. We’re not in any hurry.” Peter, coat over arm, followed his wife up the slipway.
“Nice,” he said, eyes on the river.
To her it was more than “nice.” Thames flowed down to them, circling willow-fringed through lush meadowlands, spanned in near distance by a humped bridge of mellow stone. At bridge-end, below toll-house, a farm nestled red among scant trees. Left of them, twin hillocks crested to blue of sky. At their feet, Thames plunged in gurgling gold to the weir-pool, foam-flecked under deep banks. Hitherside the stream, dyked pasturage glowed in the sun. . . .
And not thirty yards from the weir-pool—flies rolled-up, flap open—stood a tent: a perfectly good, apparently unoccupied tent!
All the time they were having their meal—the weir-man indicated a tiny arbour; boiled them hot water on the stove in his one-roomed cabin—thought of that tent obsessed their minds. To whom did that tent belong? Why shouldn’t they use that tent? River-inns were hot stuffy places, whereas a tent. . . .
Peter, balancing his third cup of tea on white-flannelled leg, approached the subject diffidently. “I say, Pat,” he began, “have you ever thought of camping-out? Rather jolly—camping-out. That tent reminded me. . . .”
“Oh, but we couldn’t possibly usethattent”—Patricia started packing-up the tea-things—“it’s sure to belong to somebody.”
“One might as well find out.” He rose from the rough bench of the tiny arbour; lounged away; came back in a few minutes, face a little flushed, eyes twinkling.
“The weir-man says that we can use it if we like. ‘The gentleman isn’t coming down till tomorrow evening.’ ”
“What gentleman?” asked Patricia.
“The gentleman who owns the tent, I suppose. I say, Pat, do let’s! It’d be a fearful lark. We could go into the town and buy our rations. . . .”
There and then, they settled the matter. The weir-man produced mattresses, blankets, a rug; unpacked the punt; directed them across the dyked pasturage towards Eynsham. And at Eynsham—which is the least interesting, ugliest village between Gravesend and Cricklade—they bought them eggs, and tinned foods, and a loaf of bread, and butter, and candles, and a huge basket of strawberries which Peter discovered hidden away in the dark of a greengrocer’s shop.
Evening began as they dawdled back, parcel-laden, along the high road; turned off from high road across the dyked pasturage. Now, willows screened the ugly village behind. They could see only the bridge, and the two hillocks beyond, and their tent—their very own tent—marking the river-bank. . . .
“It’ll be a frightful lark,” said Peter.
“Won’t it?” she answered.
Of the thing each had at heart, neither dared speech. . . .
Twilight had come in gold and gone in crimson: only faintest hints of greens and lilacs still lingered low down on the horizon. Eynsham Bridge was a humped black shadow across the dulled silver of the stream. Eynsham hills stood out in clear sepia against a turquoise sky.
“Good-night,” called the weir-man.
“Good-night,” they called back to him.
Now, they were utterly alone. The weir plunged and gurgled; a fish leaped in the pool. Darker it grew, and darker.
They could hardly see each other across the rug which had served them for dinner-table.
“Shall I light the candles in the tent?” he asked.
“If you like, dear.”
He rose slowly to his feet; and she watched his flannelled figure disappear in the gloom. Light winked from the tent-flap; the tent glowed suddenly, a cone of saffron radiance. . . .
He came back to her, picking his way quietly across the grass; saw that she had not moved. She was aware of him, dropping down beside her in the gloom.
“Pat darling,”—his voice held a new tenderness; his hand, as it sought hers, seemed to tremble—“I’ve been wanting to tell you something ever since we started.”
Their fingers trembled together, met and twined. His left arm slipped round her shoulders.
“What have you wanted to tell me?”
He drew her close to him. His heart throbbed against her shoulder-blades.
“I don’t quite know how to say it.” She could feel him blush in the darkness. “It—it isn’t the sort of thing one says to one’s wife. . . .”
He couldn’t go on: he was afraid she would laugh at him.
“What isn’t, Peter?” The whisper hardly reached him.
“I mean”—words came stumblingly—“I mean—the thing I wanted to tell you. . . . Pat darling, it isn’t very much. It’s—it’s just that I love you. And you mustn’t laugh at me for it.”
“Why should I laugh at you, boy?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Why shouldn’t you laugh at me? Don’t you remember—before we got married—you said that being in love was all nonsense; that husband and wife ought to be. . . .”
“Don’t, Peter, don’t!”—he knew, though in all his life he had never heard her cry, that she was crying. “You make me so ashamed. It’s been my own fault—every bit of it has been my own fault”—he couldn’t understand—he only knew that suddenly happiness had come to them both—she crept into his arms—“Peter?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Am I the only woman you’ve ever tried to make love to? . . . .”
Was she laughing now? or crying? He couldn’t understand—he couldn’t understand at all.
“Do answer me, boy?”
“Of course you are. I’ve never loved anybody but you in my life.”
“Honestly?” she asked.
“On my dying oath, Pat.”
Suddenly, he felt her hand on his shoulder; heard her say: “Oh, boy, boy, I believe you. . . . You’re such a rotten lover, boy. . . . You haven’t even asked me whether I love you. . . .”
“I—” he began.
“Don’t. I’m—I’m rather glad you’re such a rotten lover, boy. I—I love you for it.”
Very tenderly, their lips met in the darkness. . . .
Tent on the river-bank glowed saffron among the shadows. . . . Light vanished from the tent. . . . Moon, riding over Eynsham Bridge, saw it, a gray ghost by the gurgling weir. . . . Moon dipped behind the willows. . . . Sky lightened. . . . Stars faded. . . . Dyked pastures silvered to the dawn-gleams. . . . Sun-rim peeped over Eynsham Hills. . . . The tent-flap parted. . . .
And out of the tent, stepping quietly lest she waken her sleeping mate, came a woman, golden hair unbound, white feet bare to the dew. . . . Very quietly she came, like a nymph in the dawn. . . . Very quietly, she sank to her white knees, alone on the river-bank by the gurgling weir. . . . Very quietly, she raised her white hands to the rising day. . . .
“O God,” prayed Patricia, “dear God—let me give him a son.”