Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered the advances of his new-found brother-in-law. As to riding (always the first consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle and unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it in. Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had gone up one in his host’s estimation.
‘Fleur,’ said Val, ‘can’t ride much yet, but she’s keen. Of course, her father doesn’t know a horse from a cartwheel. Does your dad ride?’
‘He used to; but now he’s – you know, he’s—’ He stopped so hating the word ‘old’. His father was old, and yet not old; no – never!
‘Quite,’ muttered Val. ‘I used to know your brother up at Oxford, ages ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in New College Gardens. That was a queer business,’ he added, musing; ‘a good deal came out of it.’
Jon’s eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical research, when his sister’s voice said gently from the doorway:
‘Come along, you two,’ and he rose, his heart pushing him toward something far more modern.
Fleur having declared that it was ‘simply too wonderful to stay indoors,’ they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an old sun-dial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, dark and square, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that angled opening.
‘Come on!’ she called. Jon glanced at the others, and followed. She was running about the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. She vanished. He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her standing still.
‘Isn’t it jolly?’ she cried, and Jon answered:
‘Rather!’
She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers, said:
‘I suppose I can call you Jon?’
‘I should think so just.’
‘All right. But you know there’s a feud between our families?’
Jon stammered: ‘Feud? Why?’
‘It’s ever so romantic and silly. That’s why I pretended we hadn’t met. Shall we get up early tomorrow morning and go for a walk before breakfast and have it out? I hate being slow about things, don’t you?’
Jon murmured a rapturous assent.
‘Six o’clock, then. I think your mother’s beautiful.’
Jon said fervently: ‘Yes, she is.’
‘I love all kinds of beauty,’ went on Fleur, ‘when it’s exciting. I don’t like Greek things a bit.’
‘What! Not Euripides?’
‘Euripides? Oh! no, I can’t bear Greek plays; they’re so long. I think beauty’s always swift. I like to look at one picture, for instance, and then run off. I can’t bear a lot of things together. Look!’ She held up her blossom in the moonlight. ‘That’s better than all the orchard, I think.’
And, suddenly, with her other hand she caught Jon’s.
‘Of all things in the world, don’t you think caution’s the most awful? Smell the moonlight!’
She thrust the blossom against his face; Jon agreed giddily that of all things in the world caution was the worst, and bending over, kissed the hand which held his.
‘That’s nice and old-fashioned,’ said Fleur calmly. ‘You’re frightfully silent, Jon. Still I like silence when it’s swift.’ She let go his hand. ‘Did you think I dropped my handkerchief on purpose?’
‘No!’ cried Jon, intensely shocked.
‘Well, I did, of course. Let’s get back, or they’ll think we’re doing this on purpose too.’ And again she ran like a ghost among the trees. Jon followed, with love in his heart. Spring in his heart, and over all the moonlit white unearthly blossom. They came out where they had gone in, Fleur walking demurely.
‘It’s quite wonderful in there,’ she said dreamily to Holly.
Jon preserved silence, hoping against hope that she might be thinking it swift.
She bade him a casual and demure good night, which made him think he had been dreaming…
In her bedroom Fleur had flung off her gown, and, wrapped in a shapeless garment, with the white flower still in her hair, she looked like a mousmé, sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing by candlelight.
Dearest Cherry,
I believe I’m in love. I’ve got it in the neck, only the feeling is really lower down. He’s a second cousin – such a child, about six months older and ten years younger than I am. Boys always fall in love with their seniors, and girls with their juniors or with old men of forty. Don’t laugh, but his eyes are the truest things I ever saw; and he’s quite divinely silent! We had a most romantic first meeting in London under the Vospovitch Juno. And now he’s sleeping in the next room and the moonlight’s on the blossom; and tomorrow morning, before anybody’s awake, we’re going to walk off into Down fairyland. There’s a feud between our families, which makes it really exciting. Yes! and I may have to use subterfuge and come on you for invitations – if so, you’ll know why! My father doesn’t want us to know each other, but I can’t help that. Life’s too short. He’s got the most beautiful mother, with lovely silvery hair and a young face with dark eyes. I’m staying with his sister – who married my cousin; it’s all mixed up, but I mean to pump her tomorrow. We’ve often talked about love being a spoil-sport; well, that’s all tosh, it’s the beginning of sport, and the sooner you feel it, my dear, the better for you.