I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone.
Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak. Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed, that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . . you. . . .
Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy, Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well, I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon. Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?
We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes.
I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t break yours, you’ll break my heart.
Oh, Simon, I love you so.
Patricia.
Simon dropped the letter and covered his face.
Patricia watched him with the tenderest smile. She was quite calm now. She was out of the wood—in the sunlight. And Simon was close behind. In his own outrageous way, Fate had played into their hands.
Suddenly Simon turned.