She read the little poem all through, her sweet, appreciative voice making music of the lines already melodious. Christopher wondered if the writer ever knew how beautiful his words could be made.
“Is that not lovely?” she asked when she finished, leaning forward so that her hand and the book rested for a moment on his arm.
Christopher nodded without moving.
“It makes me thirsty for the sea,” she went on, “for sky, for space to move and breathe. Oh, Christopher, things here are either old or small. All the great and beautiful things are old, the glory of it, the house, the life, the very trees, old, old, old. And the rest is small, protected and shut in. I want to feel things that are young and free and great, as the sky and sea and the wind. I am thirsty sometimes to stand on the edge of the cliff and taste the free, free air from off the sea that has no one else’s thoughts in it. Do you understand that?—the longing for something that does not belong to any part, to any one?”
“Yes, I understand. I feel it too, sometimes.”
“I knew you did. You see, it’s because neither of us belong here—to Marden—really. Oh, I don’t mean it horridly. It’s the dearest place and they are all the dearest people; but the life, the big thought of it all, isn’t ours. Our people didn’t help make it.”
Christopher made no answer. He was idly flinging bits of bark into his hat. If he were but certain—oh, if he could but be certain she were right! He looked up at her at last.
There could be no room for the grey shadows of doubt any longer. She was right. He felt it as he looked and as the thought she suggested sank deeper into his mind. Was not he truly one with her in it? 204 He, too, had been conscious of a Life and History here at Marden not his own, that exacted no obligations from him, but rather silently insisted on the freedom. Such freedom, mated to hers, was the last great boon he asked of life that had already given him so much. Still he hesitated for very fear of losing the joy of the hour that would be his and hers for eternity when he sealed it with the passionate words in his heart.
“I know just what you mean,” he said, “it is no disloyalty to them to feel it—only loyalty to ourselves. As for the sea and all that, I will motor you down to Milford whenever you like.”
“Oh, Christopher!” She clasped her hands with joy like a child. “Have you brought the new motor? What is it like?”