It was then that Christopher made his discovery. He saw the mad flare in her face and flung his strong arms round her from behind, and held her against him with her hands in his gripped fast to her breast.
“Steady on, Patricia,” he said sharply, “don’t get frightened. You aren’t going to get wild this time.”
There was no alarm or anger in his voice and a queer, new note of firmness and force. She struggled ineffectually a moment and then came the dangerous quietness that waited a chance.
He could feel her muscles strained and rigid still.
“Patricia,” he said quite loudly, “drop it. I won’t have it, do you hear? You can stop if you like now, and you’ve got to.”
She bent back her head and looked at him, her child face old and worn and disfigured with her still burning fury. She looked right in his eyes: his met hers steady 119 and hard as flints, and through the blind passion of her look he saw her soul leap up, appealing, piteous, and by heaven-taught instinct, he answered that.
“It’s all right, Patricia, you are safe enough. I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself, my dear; don’t be afraid. Stop thinking. Look at the dark shadows over there—on the cornfield. They’ll cut that next week.”
Little by little he loosed his grasp on her as he felt the tension slacken, and presently she stood free, still dazed and bewildered. Christopher picked up a spade and whistled.
“All the same, you are right, Patricia,” he said thoughtfully, “it does seem a shame to disturb the old Johnny, and creepy too. I’ll fill up.”
He continued to work hard, watching her out of the corner of his eye, but talking cheerfully. Presently she took up her spade and made a poor pretence of helping him, but she said nothing till they had done and he suggested a return.