It was the first real kiss of his life. His mouth did not meet hers as it had met Dolly’s, in a hungry fierceness; he did not hold her in his arms as he had held Dolly; did not press her to him till she was forced, as Dolly had been, to fling her head back and gasp for breath. For an instant April’s cheek was against his and his mouth touched hers: nothing more. But in that cool contact of her lips he found for the first time the romance, poetry, ecstasy, and what you will, of love. And when his arms released her and she leaned back, her hand in his, a deep tenderness remained with them. He said nothing. There was no need for words. They sat silent in face of the mystery they had discovered.
Roland walked home in harmony with himself, with nature; one with the rhythm of life that was made manifest in the changing seasons of the year; the green leaf and the bud; the flower and the fruit; the warm days of harvesting. Hammerton was stretched languid beneath the September sunshine. The sky was blue, a pale blue, that whitened where it was cut by the sharp outline of roof and chimney-stack. The leaves that had been fresh and green in May, but had grown dull in the heat and dust of summer, were once more beautiful. The dirty green had changed to a shriveled, metallic copper. A few mornings of golden mist would break into a day of sultry splendor; then would come the first warning of frost—the chill air at sundown, the gray dawn that held no promise of sunshine. Oh, soon enough the boughs would be leafless, the streets bare and wintersome. But who could be sad on this day of suspended decadence, this afternoon laden with the heavy autumn scents? Were not the year’s decay, the lengthening evenings, part of the eternal law of nature—birth and death, spring and winter, and an awakening after sleep? The falling leaves suggested to him no analogy with the elusive enchantments of the senses.
Two days later he received a letter from Mr. Marston offering him a post of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with all expenses found.
“You will understand, of course,” the letter ran, “that at present you are on probation. Our work is personal and requires special gifts. These gifts, however, I believe you to possess. For both our sakes I hope that you will make a success of this. Gerald is sailing for Brussels at the end of October, and I expect that you will be able to arrange to accompany him. He will tell you what you will need to take out with you. We usually make our representatives an allowance of fifteen pounds for personal expenses, but I daresay that we could in your case, if it is necessary, increase this sum.”
Roland handed the letter to his father.
Mr. Whately, as usual in the morning, was in a state of nervous excitement. He was always a considerable trial to his family at breakfast. And as often as possible Roland delayed his own appearance till he had heard the slam of the front door. It is not easy to enjoy a meal when someone is bouncing from table to sideboard, reading extracts from the morning paper, opening letters, running up and down stairs, forgetting things in the hall. Mr. Whately had never been able to face the first hour of the morning with dignity and composure. When Roland handed him Mr. Marston’s letter he received it with the impatience of a busy man, who objects to being worried by an absurd trifle.
“Yes, what is it? What is it?”
“A letter from Mr. Marston, father, that I thought you might like to read.”
“Oh, yes, of course; well, wait a minute,” and he projected himself out of the door and up the stairs. He returned to the table within a minute, panting and flustered.
“Yes; now what’s the time? Twenty-five past eight. I’ve got seven minutes. Where’s this letter of yours, Roland? Let me see.”