Perhaps in that moment that three-days-hence future thrust its ugly face into Betty’s. Perhaps she recalled Arnold’s solitary lapse from soldierly reticence, when he had said: ‘It’s not the actual fighting or the danger. It’s the filth. And chance sights. A decaying human hand sticking out of the side of a trench—things like that.’ Perhaps she recalled this, for her face grew unaccountably tense.
‘Come along, Arnold, that’s where we’re going to have lunch. By that stream.’ She scrambled over the stile before he could offer to help her. He followed in a more leisurely fashion, a little disappointed that she had broken the spell of that meadow’s loveliness.
They sauntered across the field, and climbed another stile. Then, skirting the hedge to the left, they followed the brook until they found an agreeable resting-place on the sloping grassed bank. They sat down a few yards from the pond where, as in a picture, the cows were grouped, knee-deep in cool grass. Into that little lake, which reflected the sky’s blue and gold, the brook ran clear over a pebbly bed. Arnold, embracing his knees, rested his chin on them and stared into the water, admiring the contours and colours of the smooth, delicately-enamelled stones, and straining the imagination to share the lives of the minute creatures that were borne past in the stream. Betty watched him with a covert sidelong look.
A unique morning, yes; and a unique friendship of which Arnold was immeasurably proud. Beautifully at peace, he found delight in contemplating their relationship. He and Betty were the most staunch of comrades. There was implicit trust between them, unshakable fidelity, and never a thought of love. He could not believe that ever before had a man and a girl achieved such intimacy without being betrayed into a wish for a more passionate symbol of that intimacy than mere talk. But to Arnold, who was still in his earliest twenties, talk was the best thing in the world. And what talks he had had with Betty! With what glorious candour she had disclosed to him the secret places of her mind, places to which even her mother and sisters had never been admitted! For Arnold it was a fascinating and a sacred experience; and if Betty’s respect for his intellect was exaggerated, her absolute trust in his honour was at least well-founded. It was this absolute trust that added to their friendship the delicious flavour of romance. They exchanged ideas—on life, on religion, on sex, especially on sex—with utter unreserve, and with no hint of concession to vulgar notions of propriety.
‘Look at those jolly little red worms,’ said Arnold, pointing to the water. ‘I used to dote on those things when I was a kid.’
‘They’re lovely.’ Betty paused before adding, a trifle consciously: ‘Childhood’s the best time, isn’t it? I wish I had a baby.’
He glanced up with quick interest. ‘Well, why not?’
‘Ah, why! I’ve been married five years. At first we couldn’t afford it, and now—well, something’s wrong. For two years or more we’ve been hoping for a child.’
‘Rotten luck!’ Arnold looked back at the stream.
‘Yes. I wanted to tell you. You see, there’s something wrong with Charlie.’