The Pandervils by Gerald Bullet Page A

she was slightly freckled, that her mouth was large; and being emotionally exhausted he could not at once be sure that these accidental things, so far from being matter for regret, suppliedthe last pure drop in his cup of romance. But the next instant he knew this with all his heart, so that he rejoiced not merely in the idea of her but in the glorious bodily fact, and for the first time he entertained—shyly, rapturously—the possibility of touching her. An agitation too profound for happiness troubled his spirit; but presently—in perhaps ten seconds from the moment of meeting —the healing comfort of her presence flowed into him, filling him with peace
    She was the first to speak. ‘It’s lovely this morning, isn’t it?’
    He nodded. ‘As lovely as yesterday. Have you been here long?’
    She answered with another question: ‘Why did you come?’
    â€˜To find you,’ he said promptly.
    â€˜To find
me
indeed!’ She pretended indignation. ‘You didn’t know I’d be here. I didn’t know myself until this morning.’
    â€˜When
did you know?’ asked Egg eagerly.
    It was suddenly immensely important that he should know precisely at what hour her decision had been reached; but once again she parried with a question. ‘Do you come to the orchard every morning?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Egg. He knew by her smile that she didn’t believe him; and he knew that she interpreted his ‘Yes’ as a promise. ‘Have you been reading your book out here?’ he added.
    He had only just consciously noticed that curious portent, her book; and it explained somethingabout her that had vaguely intimidated him. With a book in her hand she had almost the air of being on her way to or from church; for he had never before seen any book carried into the open air except a Prayer Book or a Bible. He guessed now that Monica’s was a piece of secular literature, but her association with it started all his old disorders again. She was evidently a clever one, a reader of books; and he was nothing at all. No sooner had the question fallen from his lips than a feeling of unworthiness invaded him Sheepishly he turned his eyes away from her.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be a nice place to read in, the orchard. Are you going to prosecute me, Mr Pandervil, for trespassing?’
    At that, for a moment, he felt sheerly wretched. But seeing the mischief in her eyes he took courage to say: ‘That’s what they call Father, not me. I’m Egg, you know.’
    â€˜Mr Egg then. Would you like to look at my book?’
    He received the book awkwardly, nervously, as though it had been an infant that he was afraid of dropping. ‘It looks very … very nice, I’m sure,’ he said politely, turning the pages. His cheeks were scarlet. ‘But I’m not clever enough for books, and that’s a fact.’
    â€˜I’m not at all clever.’ She spoke quickly, all her schoolgirlish levity gone in a flash. ‘But I love reading. So would you. That’s by Shakespeare. Sonnets or something.’
    â€˜Shakespeare? Oh, yes! It’s him the Vicarsometimes talks of, isn’t it? Your uncle, that is.’
    â€˜It’s Uncle’s book,’ confessed the girl. ‘I sort of stole it. Well, you know, took it. Of course I shall put it back. What I mean is that he doesn’t know I’ve got it. He’d be cross if he did, I expect.’
    Was it then a prohibited book? Egg was human enough to be stimulated by the suggestion into looking at the pages more attentively. ‘It’s printed funny, isn’t it? A funny shape.’
    â€˜Is it? I don’t think so.’ Monica came to his side, puzzled. They studied the page together. After a pause she said, tentatively: ‘It’s poetry, you see.’
    â€˜Oh, poetry, of course!’ That word, for Egg, was the summing up of