§ 9
“It will be a green Christmas,” said Dr. Mount.
Stella made no answer. The little car sped through the lanes at the back of Benenden. They had driven far—to the very edge of the doctor’s wide-flung practice, by Hawkhurst and Skullsgate, beyond the Kent Ditch. They had called at both the Nineveh farms—Great Nineveh and Little Nineveh—and had now turned south again. The delicate blue sky was drifted over with low pinkish clouds, which seemed to sail very close to the field where their shadows moved; the shadows swooped down the lane with the little car, rushing before it into Sussex. Stella loved racing the sky.
On her face, on her neck, she could still feel cold places where Peter had kissed her. It was wonderful and beautiful, she thought, that she should carry the ghosts of his kisses through Sussex and Kent. And now she would not have so long to be content with ghosts—there would not be those terrible intervals of separation. She would see Peter again soon, and the time would come—must come—when they would be together always. “Together always” was the fulfilment of Stella’s dream. “They married and were together always” sounded better in her ears than “they married and lived happy ever after.” No more partings, no more ghosts of kisses, much as she loved those ghosts, but always the dear, warm bodily presence—Peter working, Peter resting, Peter sleepy, Peter hungry, Peter talking, Peter silent—Peter always.
“It will be a green Christmas,” repeated Dr. Mount.
“Er—did you speak, Father dear?”
“Yes, I said it would be a gr——but never mind, I’m sure your thoughts are more interesting than anything I could say.”
Stella blushed. She and her father had a convention of silence between them in regard to Peter. He knew all about him, of course, but they both pretended that he didn’t; because Stella felt she had no right to tell him until Peter had definitely asked her to be his wife. And he had not asked her yet. When they had first fallen in love, Hugh Alard was still alive and the second son’s prospects were uncertain; then when Hugh was killed and Peter became the heir, there was still the war, and she knew that her stolid, Saxon Peter disapproved of war-weddings and grass widows who so often became widows indeed. He had told her then he could not marry her till after the war, and she had treated that negative statement as the beginning of troth between them. She had never questioned or pressed him—it was not her way—she had simply taken him for granted. She had felt that he could not, any more than she, be satisfied with less than “together always.”
But now she felt that something definite must happen soon, and their tacit understanding become open and glorious. His family would disapprove, she knew, though they liked her personally and owed a great deal to her father. But Stella, outside and unaware, made light of Conster’s opposition. Peter was thirty-six and had five hundred a year of his own, so in her opinion could afford to snap his fingers at Alard tyranny. Besides, she felt sure the family would “come round”—they would be disappointed at first, but naturally they wouldn’t expect Peter to give up his love-choice simply because she had no money. She would be glad when things were open and acknowledged, for though her secret was a very dear one, she was sometimes worried by her own shifts to keep it, and hurt by Peter’s. It hurt her that he should have to pretend not to care about her when they met in public—but not so much as it would have hurt her if he hadn’t done it so badly.
“Well, now he’s back, I suppose Peter will take the eldest son’s place,” said Dr. Mount, “and help his father manage the property.”
“Yes—he told me this morning that Sir John wants him to be agent instead of Mr. Greening, and he’s to live at Starvecrow.”
“At Starvecrow! You’ll like that—I mean, it’s nice to think Peter won’t have to go back and work in London. I always felt he belonged here more than Hugh.”
“Yes, I don’t think Hugh cared for the place very much, but Peter always did. It always seemed hard lines that he should be the second son.”
“Poor Hugh,” said Dr. Mount—“he was very like Peter in many ways—Sober and solid and kind-hearted; but he hadn’t Peter’s imagination.”
“Peter’s very sensitive,” said Stella—“in spite of his being such a big, heavy thing.”
Then she smiled, and said in her heart—“Peter’s mine.”