§ 8
A minute later Stella Mount was in the room. Gervase had not seen her for several years; during the greater part of the war she had been away from home, first at a munition factory, then as an auxiliary driver to the Army Service Corps. When last they had met the gulf between the schoolboy of fourteen and the girl of twenty had yawned much wider than between the youth of eighteen and the young woman of twenty-four. Stella looked, if anything, younger than she had looked four years ago, and he was also of an age to appreciate her beauty which he had scarcely noticed on the earlier occasions.
In strict point of fact Stella was not so much beautiful as pretty, for there was nothing classic in her little heart-shaped face, with its wide cheek-bones, pointed chin and puckish nose. On the other hand there was nothing of that fragile, conventional quality which prettiness is understood to mean. Everything about Stella was healthy, warm and living—her plump little figure, the glow on her cheeks, the shine of her grey eyes between their lashes, like pools among reeds, the decision of her chin and brows, the glossy, tumbling masses of her hair, all spoke of strength and vigour, a health that was almost hardy.
She came into the room like a flame, and Gervase felt his heart warming. Then he remembered that she was Peter’s—Jenny had said so, though she had not blessed Peter’s possession.
“How d’you do, Stella?” he said, “it’s ages since we met. Do you know who I am?”
“Of course I do. You haven’t altered much, except in height. You’ve left Winchester for good now, haven’t you?”
“Yes—and I’ve just been arguing with Peter about what I’m to do with myself now I’m home.”
“How very practical of you! I hope Peter was helpful.”
“Not in the least.”
He could feel Peter’s eyes upon him, telling him to get out of the way and leave him alone with his bright flame....
“Well, I must push off—they may be wanting the Ford at home.”
He shook hands with Stella, nodded to Peter, and went out.
For a moment Peter and Stella faced each other in silence. Then Peter came slowly up to her and took her in his arms, hiding his face in her neck.
“O Stella—O my beauty!...”
She did not speak, but her arms crept round him. They could scarcely meet behind his broad back—she loved this feeling of girth which she could not compass, combined as it was with a queer tender sense of his helplessness, of his dependence on her——
“O Peter,” she whispered—“my little Peter....”
“I was writing to you, darling, when you came.”
“And I was on my way to see you at Conster. Father was going there after he’d called on little Joey Greening. I wouldn’t come yesterday—I thought your family would be all over you, and I didn’t like....”
She broke off the sentence and he made no effort to trim the ragged end. Her reference to his family brought back into his thoughts the conversation he had had with his father over the wine. She had always felt his family as a cloud, as a barrier between them, and it would be difficult to tell her that now he was the heir, now he was home from the war, instead of being removed the cloud would be heavier and the barrier stronger.
“I’m so glad you came here”—he breathed into her hair—“that our first meeting’s at Starvecrow.”
“Yes—I’m glad, too.”
Peter sat down in the leather-covered office chair, holding Stella on his knee.
“Child—they’re going to give me Starvecrow.”
“O Peter!”...
“Yes—Greening wants to leave, and my father’s making me agent in his place.”
“How lovely! Shall you come and live here?”
“Yes.”
The monosyllable came gruffly because of the much more that he wanted to say. It was a shame to have such reserves spoil their first meeting.
“I’m so awfully, wonderfully glad, Peter darling.”
She hid her soft, glowing face in his neck—she was lying on his breast like a child, but deliciously heavy, her feet swung off the floor.
“Stella—my sweetheart—beautiful....”
His love for her gave him a sweet wildness of heart, and he who was usually slow of tongue, became almost voluble——
“Oh, I’ve longed for this—I’ve thought of this, dreamed of this.... And you’re lovelier than ever, you dear.... Stella, sweetheart, let me look into your eyes—close to—like that ... your eyelashes turn back like the petals of a flower.... O you wonderful, beautiful thing ... And it’s so lovely we should have met here instead of at home—the dearest person in the dearest place ... Stella at Starvecrow.”
“Starvycrow,” she repeated gently.
For a moment he felt almost angry that she should have used his name—his private music. But his anger melted into his love. She used his name because she, alone in all the world, felt his feelings and thought his thoughts. Perhaps she did not love Starvecrow quite as he did, but she must love it very nearly as much or she would not call it by its secret name. They sat in silence, her head upon his shoulder, his arms about her, gathering her up on his knees. On the hearth a log fire softly hummed and sighed. Ages seemed to flow over them, the swift eternities of love.... Then suddenly a voice called “Stella!” from the drive.
She started up, and the next moment was on her feet, pushing away her hair under her cap, buttoning her high collar over her chin.
“How quick Father’s been! I feel as if I’d only just come.”
“You must come again.”
“I’m coming to dinner on Christmas day, you know.”
“That doesn’t count. I want you here.”
“And I want to be here with you—always.”
The last word was murmured against his lips as he kissed her at the door. He was not quite sure if he had heard it. During the rest of the morning he sometimes feared not—sometimes hoped not.