II

Mrs. Launce, on Sunday afternoon, from the door of her cottage, watched them both strike across the common towards the sea--Peter, "stocky,"

walking as though no force on earth could upset his self-possession and sturdy balance, Clare with her little body and easy movement meant for this air and sea and springing turf. Mrs. Launce having three magnificent children of her own believed in the science of Eugenics heart and soul. Here, before her eyes, was the right and proper Union--talk about souls and spirit and temperament--important enough for the immediate Two--but give Nature flesh and bones, with cleanliness and a good straight stock to work on, and see what She will do!

Mrs. Launce went into the cottage again and prepared herself for an announcement at tea-time. She wiped her eyes before she settled down to her work. Loving both of them the thought of their happiness hung about her all the afternoon and made her very tender and forgiving when the little parlourmaid arrived with a piece of the blue and white china smashed to atoms. "I can't think 'ow it 'appened, Mum. I was just standing...."

Peter and Clare, crossing the common, beheld the sea at their feet. It was a hot misty afternoon and only the thin white line of tiny curling waves crept out of the haze on to the gleaming yellow sand. Behind them, on every side was common and the only habitation, a small cottage nearly hidden by a black belt of trees, on their right. These black, painted trees lay like a blot of ink against the blue sky.

Sitting down on the edge of the common they looked on to the yellow sand. The air was remorselessly still as though the world were cased in iron; somewhere deep within its silence, its heart might yet be beating, but the depths hid its reverberation.

Peter lay flat on his back and instantly his world was full of clamour.

All about him insects were stirring, the thin stiff blades of grass were very faintly rustling, a tiny blue butterfly flew up from the soil into the bright air--some creature sang a little song that sounded like the faint melody of a spinet.

"All praising the Lord, I suppose--" Peter listened. "Hymn and glory songs and all the rest--" Then, clashing, out of the heart of the sky, the thought followed. "There _must_ be a God"--the tinkling insect told him so.

He gazed into the great sheet of blue above him, so remote, so cruel ...

and yet the tiny blue butterfly flew, without fear, into its very heart.

Peter's soul was drawn up. He swung, he flew, he fled.... Down below, there on the hard, brown soil his body lay--dust to the dust--there, dead amongst the singing insects.... He looked down, from his great heights and saw his body, with its red face and its suit of blue and its up-turned boots, and here, in freedom his Soul exulted!

"Of course there is a God!"

They are praising him down there--the ground is covered with creatures that are praising Him. Peter buried his eyes and instantly his soul came swinging down to him, found his body again, filled once more his veins with life and sound. After a vast silence he could hear, once more, the life amongst the grass, the faint rustle of the thin line of foam beneath him, and could smell the earth and the scent of the seaweed borne up to them from the sand.

"It's so still," he said suddenly, "that it's almost like thunder.

There'll be a storm later. On a day like this in Cornwall you would hear the sound of the Mining Stamps for miles--"

"Well," she answered, "I am glad we're not in Cornwall--I hate it."

"Hate it!"

"Yes. That sounds horrible to you, I suppose, and I'm quite ready to admit that it's my cowardice. Cornwall frightens me. When I was there as a tiny girl it was just the same. I always hated it."

"I don't believe you're ever frightened at anything."

"I am. I'm under such a disadvantage, you see. If I'd been white-faced and haggard every one would have thought it quite natural that I should scream if I were left in the dark or hate being left alone with those horrible black rocks that Cornwall's so full of, but just because I'm healthy and was taught to hold my back up at school I have to pretend to a bravery that simply doesn't exist--" He rejected, for the moment the last part of her sentence. "Oh, but I understand perfectly what you mean by your fear of Cornwall. Of course I understand it although I love the place with all my soul and body. But it is terrifying--almost the only terrifying place that civilisation has left to us--Central Africa is nothing to it--"

"Are you afraid of it?" she said, looking at him intently.

"Tremendously--because I suppose it won't let me alone. It's difficult to put into words, but I think what I mean is that I want to go on now in London, writing and seeing people and being happy and it's pulling at me all the time."

"What way pulling at you?"

"I can't get out of my head all the things I did when I was a boy there.

I wasn't very happy, you know. I've told you something about it....

I want to go back.... I want to go back. I mustn't, but I want to go back--and it hurts--"

He seemed to have forgotten her--he stared out to sea, his hands holding the grass on either side of him.

She moved and the sound suddenly brought him back. He turned to her laughing.

"Sorry. I was thinking about things. That cottage over there with the black trees reminded me of Scaw House a little.... But it's all right really. I suppose every fellow has the wild side and the sober side, and I've had such a rum life and been civilised so short a time...."

She said slowly: "I think I know what you mean, though. I know enough of it to be frightened of it--I don't want life to be like that. I don't suppose I've got imagination. I want it to be orderly and easy and no one to be hurt or damaged. Oh!"--her voice was suddenly like a cry--"Why can't we just go through life without any one being frightened or made miserable? I _believe_ in cities and walls and fires and regulated emotions--all those other things can only hurt."

"They teach courage," Peter answered gravely. "And that's about the only thing we're here to learn, I expect. My mother died because she wasn't brave enough and I want ... I want...."

He broke off--"There's only one thing I want and that's you, Clare. You must have known all these weeks that I love you. I've loved you ever since I met you that Good Friday afternoon years ago. Let me take care of you, see that no one hurts you--love you ... love you--"

"Do you really want me, Peter?"

He didn't speak but his whole body turned towards her, answered her question.

"Because I am yours entirely. I became yours that day when your hand touched mine. I wasn't sure before--I knew then--"

He looked at her. He saw her, he thought for the first time. She sat with her hands pressing on the grass, her body bent back a little.

The curve from her neck to her feet was like the shadow of some colour against the brown earth because he saw her only dimly. Her hair burnt against the blue sky but her eyes--her eyes! His gaze caught hers and he surrendered himself to that tenderness, that mystery, that passion that she flung about him. In her eyes he saw what only a lover can see--the terror and the splendour of a soul surprised for the first time into love. She was caught, she was trapped, she was gorgeously delivered. In her eyes he saw that he had her in the hollow of his hand and that she was glad to be there.

But even now they had not touched--they had not moved from their places.

They were urged towards one another by some fierce power but also some great suspense still restrained them.

Then Clare spoke, hurriedly, almost pleadingly.

"But Peter, listen--before I say any more--you must know me better.

I think that it is just because I love you so much that I see myself clearly to-day as I have never seen myself before--although I have, I suppose really known ... things ... but I have denied them to myself.

But now I know that all that I say is true--"

"I am ready," he said, smiling. But she did not smile back at him, she was intensely serious, she spoke without moving her eyes from his face.

"It is not altogether my fault. I have been an only child and everything that I have wanted I have always had. I have despised my mother and even my father because they have given in to me--that is not a pleasant thing to know. And now comfort, happiness, an absence of all misery, these things are essential--"

"I will look after you," said Peter. It was almost with irritation that she brushed aside his assurance.

"Yes, yes, I know, but you must understand that it's more than that.

If I am unhappy I am another creature you haven't seen ... you don't know.... If I am frightened--"

"But Clare, dear, we're all like that--"

"No, it's sheer wickedness with me. Oh! Peter I love you so much that you _must_ listen. You mustn't think afterwards, ah, if I'd only known--"

"Aren't you making too much of it all? We've all got these things and it's just because we can help each other that we marry. We give each the courage--"

"I've always been frightened," she said slowly, "always when anything big comes along--always. And this is the biggest thing I've ever met.

If only it had been some ordinary man ... but you, Peter, that I should hurt _you_."

"You won't hurt me," he answered her, "and I'd rather be hurt by you than helped by some one else--let's leave all this. If you love me, there's nothing else to say.... Do you love me, Clare?"