‘I know that you’re you,’ teased Angela, smiling again, but she reached out and took Stephen’s hand.
Something in the queer, vital strength of that hand stirred her deeply, so that she tightened her fingers: ‘What in the Lord’s name are you?’ she murmured.
‘I don’t know. Go on holding like that to my hand—hold it tighter—I like the feel of your fingers.’
‘Stephen, don’t be absurd!’
‘Go on holding my hand, I like the feel of your fingers.’
‘Stephen, you’re hurting, you’re crushing my rings!’
And now they were under the trees by the lakes, their feet falling softly on the luminous carpet. Hand in hand they entered that place of deep stillness, and only their breathing disturbed the stillness for a moment, then it folded back over their breathing.
‘Look,’ said Stephen, and she pointed to the swan called Peter, who had come drifting past on his own white reflection. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this is Morton, all beauty and peace—it drifts like that swan does, on calm, deep water. And all this beauty and peace is for you, because now you’re a part of Morton.’
Angela said: ‘I’ve never known peace, it’s not in me—I don’t think I’d find it here, Stephen.’ And as she spoke she released her hand, moving a little away from the girl.
But Stephen continued to talk on gently; her voice sounded almost like that of a dreamer: ‘Lovely, oh, lovely it is, our Morton. On evenings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter. And as we walk back we can smell the log fires long before we can see them, and we love that good smell because it means home, and our home is Morton—and we’re happy, happy—we’re utterly contented and at peace, we’re filled with the peace of this place—’