"Yes," I said, "I am."
It was true. In that at least I didn't lie. I was going to explain the truth to Walter Markham, and I was going to make it easy for Cheneston to marry Grace Gilpin.
She held my hand against her face. The charm of her was like a beautiful, strong current—I can't explain; all the things I long to express and cannot, the things I suffer so for my inability to voice and demonstrate, seemed gloriously easy. I put my arms round her and pressed her face to mine. I loved her with a dear and full love.
"My little Pam!" she said. "My dear, funny little soul!" Then she said sharply and fiercely: "Oh, Pam, it's cruel if we women who are sent into the world with out-size hearts and feelings meet the wrong men! I met the right one!" A note of triumph crept into her voice. "And Cheneston will understand that in your dear tiny body is a soul and a heart too big and strong. People call it the artistic temperament—it isn't really that, it means that something that is shut up and sealed with other people until they get to heaven where nothing can hurt is left open—maybe it's left open accidentally, maybe it's meant—and those people suffer more than the rest of the world, and are more gloriously glad, and out of the glory and the travail of their souls they give to the world wonderful music, or wonderful pictures, or wonderful books. And they are not like other people, Pam! They are very great and very little at the same time, and not one in a thousand can understand how life hurts, and how glorious it is when it is glorious. Cheneston will understand; that is why you and he must never, never run away from each other—you dear, funny little soul!"
Then I heard Cheneston calling.
We drove to the station almost in silence. He took the high dog-cart, and we could see over the hedges; they sparkled with thousands of raindrops, and the late dog-roses seemed like phantasies wrought in vivid coral, and blackberries like black diamonds and rubies jewelled the world, and every bird seemed singing and every cricket chirping for sheer gladness of the newly washed day.
He told me he had had an extension of leave.
I was so happy. I have never had a feeling that I did not want to share—I can't explain. I just want to pass on every bit of loveliness that comes into my life. We passed lots of children picking blackberries, and I could have cried because I wanted to kiss them so, or give them something, or just tell them I thought they'd get the loveliest lot of blackberries I had ever seen—because I was up in the world, sitting above the hedges with Cheneston.
We passed a little girl who had spilt all her blackberries and was crying, and I took off a little gold bracelet I had on and flung it to her.
I shall never forget the ecstatic look in her small, grimy face.