Hugh walked on some hundred yards, pondering a little over this rather cryptic sentence, but thinking mainly of Davos. Then a sudden thought struck him; but the moment it really took shape he laughed at it. There were limits to the absurdity even of people who had thought Edith’s paper on the newly discovered Nelson letters unfit for the digestion of the Literific.
It was daffodil-weather next day, and he spent a delightful morning, noting down what he knew Edith would care to hear about, seeing with her eyes as far as he could and hearing with her delicate sense. Till mid-day or thereabout he prowled round the gardens, and up on to the down where she had revealed Andrew Robb, and found everywhere the intimate thrill of home. It was all part of him and her, as he had once said to her, and while it was newly fresh he went indoors again to write her word of it—
Yes, my darling, it is daffodil-weather on my first morning here, and I, too, prayed for Peggy—oh! by the way, I have just heard from her, and she and Daisy are coming down this afternoon, so I shan’t be alone for a single day—when I went into the copse above the Chalkpit. There they were, millions and millions, like splashes of sun. And the beeches had that sort of green powder on their stems which only appears in spring (do you know it?), and birds, birds; you never saw such a business. All the gentlemen were running after the ladies, and the ladies were pretending to run away, but they never ran far. Above, the down was still gray, but I searched among the old grass, the way you showed me, and the tiny fresh shoots and spears were just beginning to come up. Oh! I dined at Dick’s last night, because they hadn’t got my telegram (I don’t think I sent it, by the way), and there wasn’t anything to eat (here, you understand). Mrs. Owen was there. She sang Galahad’s “Good Night.” (Oh! I forgot—on the down I threw my hat in the air as I did when you told me you were A. R., just at the same place. That’s all; I thought you would like to know.) Yes, she sang Galahad’s “Good Night.” Galahad’s “Good Night.” Lor’! Then she revoked at Bridge, which we played at for beans. Then I walked home with her, and we talked about the stars, and how calm they were. What a fiend! They like her so much, too.
What of the garden? Well, it’s you, just as the down and the daffodils are. But I don’t like the steep bank up to the broad walk from the tennis court. (Peggy brings George Alexander Hugh with her, and says he’s as long as his name now.) All over the elms the leaves are bursting, and the hawthorn hedge is covered with little bunches of green, just like the way fire bursts out from squibs. And all morning one tune rang in my head, “Meine Seele.”
Then I went down to the water-meadow. (By the way, I sang that last night, and told them it was Tschaikowsky, and Mrs. Owen said she knew it so well. What a liar!) And I stepped into an enormous bog-hole right up to my knee. Heaps of forget-me-nots, and the water as blue. I shall try to get a trout this evening; no use before about sunset. What a silly letter; full of little things.
Oh! Edith, your room. I could have howled. I wish you weren’t so blooming essential to every place we have been in together. Yet it wouldn’t be you if you weren’t, and it wouldn’t be the place, either. But your room needed you most of all. I sat in your chair for ages, and in the blotting-pad between the leaves there was tucked away a half-sheet of paper with “Household Books” written very neatly at the top. Such method, and no result! Not another word. I wonder if you paid them, even.
I had a splendid journey—a few moments of shrill expostulation at Basle, because they wanted me to throw away some wax matches, but my powerful mixture of French, English, German and a little operatic Italian like “Lasciate mi” reduced them. And all the time that the miles were lengthening out between us, the thread never broke, and it reaches all the way to me here, the golden thread. By now, too, you will have written me a long letter all about yourself, and it’s coming as quick as it can, the sluggard!
Edith, it’s too killing for words. I am quite sure that Mrs. Owen thinks that you and I have quarrelled. My sudden presence here alone is felt to want explanation. I think I must be right about it. I do hope so. If I’m right Mrs. Owen will certainly pump me. I shall lead her on, o’er moor and fen and crag, until she topples into the torrent. Oh! that’s profane. Sorry! When she has definitely committed herself, and I think she will, I shall tell her what I think in polite language. It occurred to me last night, when I tumbled in upon them all without warning, that they thought something was odd. Then when I said “Good-night” to her at her gate, she said she would be so willing to help. This morning I have been thinking it over, and I believe she must have meant something. Dick was slightly more parochial, too, when I went away.
Oh! how I long for you. That’s all.
Hugh.